Parades & Fireworks
by bladecatcher86
Summary: A wiser man than Balthier had once famously said that not all treasure was silver and gold. He used to think that was a load of rubbish... but all of a sudden that old line was finally starting to make sense. [Rated M for some language, some dirty humor, and adult situations in chapters 1, 5, and 6. Balthier/Ashe, with some Balthier/Elza sprinkled in.]
1. You'll Go To Hell

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** The following has been rated **M** for some language and dirty humor, but mostly for adult situations. And that's including this first chapter – ye be warned. It's nothing excessively explicit since this isn't meant to be a lemon (chapters 1, 5, and 6 are about as citrusy as this gets, and the adult stuff is sometimes played for laughs anyway), but your mileage may vary.

I had originally posted this as two very long chapters, but I quickly realized that splitting them up would make it much easier to read and navigate. I just hope it doesn't disrupt the flow too much.

* * *

**PART I**

_So drunk in the August sun_

_And you're the kind of girl I like_

_Because you're empty and I'm empty_

_And you can never quarantine the past._

Pavement, "Gold Soundz"

**A CASUAL BUSINESSMAN ON MATTERS OF THE HEART**

* * *

**1.1**_ you'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking_

* * *

The pirate's eyes darted to and fro observing the numerals on the doors as he sauntered through the dimly-lit hallway, the old floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet. The latest treasure hunt had been more physically taxing than he'd anticipated, and he was eager to spend the night atop a proper mattress rather than toss and turn for an hour in a cot aboard his airship before finally dozing off. That had become a most irritating nightly ritual.

Any other evening he'd be happy to admire the landscape portraits on the walls, amusing himself by inventing outlandish interpretations of the works when the artists clearly only wished to say, "What a lovely view this is." But this time he saw them as more akin to tourist traps, distractions with no purpose or value beyond delaying his arrival at his intended destination. He fumbled through his pockets for the key as he approached the proper door, slipped it into the keyhole, and gave the surprisingly heavy door a firm push.

He was immediately blinded by the glowing rays of the setting sun. The light flooded the room through a glass doorway on the opposite wall, which lead to a grandiose balcony overlooking the sea. Golden coins littered the floor and paper currency rained down from the ceiling like confetti, floating about in a gentle breeze blowing in through an open window. The whole suite looked remarkably regal, a far cry from the simple designs that defined the rest of the place.

_I must remember the name of this inn_, he mused. _Such impressive décor._

He looked toward the right and spotted a small end table, upon which rested a fancy lamp and, more interestingly, a little jar of what appeared to be maraschino cherries. Strange… he couldn't remember picking up anything of that sort.

Finally he looked straight ahead toward the center of the room. There was a large four-poster bed shrouded in a thin white see-through curtain. A nude young blonde sat on her heels with her back facing him, her right arm jerking up and down as if shaking something obscured from his view. He could hear a faint hissing sound as the girl began spraying herself in strategic locations. Then, when she was done, she turned her head to face him – slowly, presumably to build his anticipation.

Her instantly recognizable face formed a come-hither glance, and she silently beckoned to him with her index finger.

She didn't have to ask twice. He was quick to join her inside the curtain. His clothing did not.

The girl turned to face him as he slowly made his way across the mattress, revealing a can of whipped cream in her hand and wearing lingerie made from its contents. Her eyes met his as she sprayed a little dollop of whipped cream on her tongue and swallowed it, and her soft pink lips formed a thin smile.

"That's a good look for you, Princess," he said, letting her title sound more like a pet name.

"Is that so?" she purred, a tone of voice he'd never heard from her before, and she reached over to brush an imaginary hair behind his ear. "What a shame that it's for your eyes only, then."

And with that, she rolled the can away and pulled him into a deep kiss, one he gladly returned. She draped an arm over his shoulder and cradled the back of his head in her hand. He let his hands explore the soft and smooth skin of her back before cupping her ass and giving it a good squeeze. She giggled against his lips and they opened their mouths a little to let their tongues try to tie each other in knots. Before long she was lying on her back with her head on the pillow, looking up at him, panting softly.

"You know," she whispered, "I think I'd like a little snack before we do anything else."

"Really?" he said. "What did you have in mind?"

"I want you to feed me those cherries."

He looked over toward the end table, where he noticed the jar he'd seen before.

"No, not _those_ cherries," she said, reaching for his chin and guiding his head where she wanted him to look. "Give me _these_."

There were a couple of cherries buried in the two mounds of whipped cream covering her breasts, and he also noticed the third mound between her legs, and for a moment he wondered how the cherries hadn't fallen off or how the cream hadn't melted away by now. But it was only a fleeting question, and he lightly poked his fingertip in and—

"Ah-ah-ah!" she scolded, wagging her index finger at him as if training a puppy. "No hands. And I want you to lick me clean."

He looked down at her and gave a little chuckle. "I never knew this side of you even existed. I think I like it."

Her smile faded slightly as she met his gaze. "There's a _lot_ about me that you don't know."

He wasn't sure where exactly that came from, but her smile quickly returned so he shrugged it off and went to work. He could tell she was enjoying herself from the ticklish giggles and contented humming noises, and he passed the cherry from his mouth to hers with another kiss. Then he did the same with her other breast and crawled back toward her hips as she chewed the second cherry.

Then, as he licked the third mound, he began to notice a few things. He saw where she'd left the whipped cream can, which made him think about where he'd like to spray some on himself if there came an opportunity for role-reversal. Her earlier humming had given way to heavier panting and some soft oohs and aahs; thankfully, considering the neighbors who would disapprove of him picking this forbidden fruit, she wasn't loud. And third…

"Well, that's odd," he murmured, knowing exactly what had been under his tongue. "This is _definitely_ not a cherry."

And then suddenly she gave a startled cry, rolled away from him, and lifted herself up on all fours, her hip beside his head as he propped himself up on his elbows.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything is fine," she assured him, looking back at him. "Why? Do you think there's something wrong?"

He decided to play things more carefully in light of that little outburst. "I think you tricked me," he said.

She cocked her head in confusion.

"You didn't put any cherries down there at all, did you?"

She rolled her eyes and gave a little sigh of what was either exasperation or relief, or maybe something in between. Then she playfully jerked her hip and bopped him on the head.

He started to laugh. At this point, he had no idea how else to react to her sudden mood swings. It was all starting to get rather confusing.

"You liked that?" she asked him, pivoting herself around. "Then how about this?" And with that, she started massaging the side of his head with her ass.

He'd heard of dancing cheek-to-cheek, but _never_ like this.

"Does that feel good?" she teased. "Don't tell me you don't think I know how much you stare."

Had he really been _that_ obvious about it?

"What's gotten into you today?" he finally asked as he felt her rubbing against him a little harder. "You're being unusually frisky."

"Isn't that what you want?" she asked.

And this time she wasn't playing around. Instead she was letting her much more familiar intensity and haughtiness begin to sneak into her voice for the first time.

"Another girl throwing herself at you, only to become another notch in your bedpost?"

Well, _that_ certainly stung. He began to retort – and she immediately interrupted his reply with another bop on his head, because somehow her words had completely distracted him from what she'd been doing, and she started crawling away.

"Of course I'm different, right?" she went on, looking back at him. "Well, perhaps I am. But I'm sure that's what you said to all the others. The only thing that sets me apart is that you might actually remember my name."

It made no sense. Her eyes were telling him to come over, and her body moved as if yearning for his touch, yet her voice was telling him "don't you dare."

But she was right – she _was_ different. How could he have been such a fool? She'd been raised to behave at a higher standard, and to expect better treatment from her peers in return. This was not just some girl he'd met in a tavern who was only looking for a good time. Once upon a time, she had been a heartbeat away from becoming one of the most powerful people in the world.

"What do you really want?" she continued, lying on her side and resting her head on the pillow. "What are you trying to gain from coming with me? If this is your goal, then we can simply finish things up right now. You can get this infatuation out of your system and be on your way, and I can move on to someone who truly cares for me."

Her words were tinged with another unfamiliar tone – was it disappointment? Or sadness, perhaps?

"I'll grant your wish just this once," she said, "but I have too little patience for monomaniacal philanderers to let it go any further."

She rolled over now, turning her back to him so he couldn't see how much he'd upset her.

"Is that how you see me?" he asked. "You honestly don't think I have any other motives or desires?"

"How am I supposed to know," she mumbled, "when you never tell me anything?"

He crawled over to her, lay beside her, and gently embraced her from behind. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear. "The only reason I haven't told you is because… because I don't want you despising me any more than you already do."

She turned her head and looked back at him, her blue eyes sparkling like sapphires. "I don't want to despise you," she said softly. "I simply want you to be honest."

"I don't know if I'm ready to tell you yet."

"Promise me you will."

He tightened his embrace as he tried to repress memories of the life he'd left behind in the imperial capital. "When I'm ready to start being honest," he said, "I promise you'll be the first one I tell."

She began to smile again, and he knew that if there was one thing he'd gotten right all night, it was the observation that this really was a good look for her.

And then she said his name in a voice that wasn't hers.

"What was that?" he wondered aloud.

"Come on," she said with her new voice. "It's time to wake up." She sounded strangely gruff, _masculine_ even.

Somewhere along the line, this night had taken a very bizarre turn.

"Not now," he said, closing his eyes.

"Yes, now," came the manly voice, and everything began to shake, and the air grew colder, and the bright suite grew darker as the colorful drywall began changing into drab icy stone…

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** The title of Part I comes from "Dr. L'Ling" by Minus The Bear (coincidentally enough, their first album was called _Highly Refined Pirates_), while the title of this chapter is a lyric from "Nude" by Radiohead.

Wanna know something funny? The rest of this story is quite different in tone from this opening chapter. Like I said, it isn't a lemon. My actual goal is just exploring characters and relationships. So naturally I open the story with perhaps its most off-putting and deliberately weird chapter, one best described as "a lemon gone wrong," featuring unrealistic setting details, characters deliberately acting out of character, narration going out of its way to point out anything strange, and one character calling out the other for treating her like a lust object. And to top it off, the characters aren't even named until the start of chapter 2. Yeah, that all makes for a strange first impression.

And yes, I have seen _Varsity Blues_! Why do you ask?


	2. Locked Inside Ourselves

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**1.2**_ locked inside ourselves_

* * *

When Balthier opened his eyes again, everything was blurry and dark and the air of the Paramina Rift still managed to freeze, even despite the heavy blanket draped over him. He tried to move but there was something curled up snugly to his left and a firm hand on his torso shaking him awake. As his vision cleared up he recognized the owner of that hand as none other than Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg of Dalmasca, wrongfully accused of regicide and treason and recently back from the dead and freed from prison, all of which were contrary to Ondore's lies (or however Vaan had put it), and last but certainly not least Princess Ashe's knight in potholder armor.

"All right, all right, I'm up!" he groaned as the captain finally removed his hand. "Bloody hell."

"Sorry to disturb your beauty rest," Basch said, "but it's your turn to keep watch."

"Lucky me," Balthier mumbled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "The joys of drawing the short straw…"

"One last thing before you go, if you don't mind," Basch said.

"What is it?"

The knight seemed unusually agitated, and something told Balthier it had nothing to do with his sarcasm. He chalked it up to being difficult to wake. He'd once been told by a lovely soldier girl with light brown hair ending in little curls and wearing naught but a patch over her right eye (he never found out if it was for fashion or genuine necessity) that he was such a heavy sleeper he could probably doze his way through the apocalypse.

His hypothesis proved to be untrue.

"Care to explain how you, of all people, ended up sleeping beside Her Majesty?" Basch asked, folding his arms.

The party had found a small snowless alcove in the side of a cliff and managed to cram themselves into a small tent, the only one they could afford with their limited funds. They'd laid a large blanket across the floor so they wouldn't have to sleep on cold ground, then used a second to cover up the whole group and gave a third to whoever sat outside making sure nothing tried to attack them overnight. They had also shuffled themselves around a bit to ensure everyone could find as comfortable of a fit as possible. The final settlement placed Vaan and Penelo beside the tent's walls, Balthier smack in the middle, and Fran and Ashe on either side of him.

This arrangement did not make Her (Former) Royal Highness very happy.

"I am far too exhausted and not nearly stupid enough to try anything untoward," the sky pirate had assured her. "I will swear to the god of your choosing. And if I should somehow break this vow, you have my permission to render me a eunuch."

"What's a eunuch?" Penelo had asked.

"Nothing you would ever need to worry about becoming," Balthier had said.

And true to his word, he'd fallen asleep almost immediately. Not that this explanation, or anything else he would have to say, was ever going to satisfy Ashe's ever-watchful bodyguard. So instead, he decided to have a little fun.

"Ah, funny story about that," he said, recalling a stunt a certain foppish Rozarrian twit had attempted a few nights prior. "I actually gave her a couple glasses of Bhujerban Madhu and started sweet-talking her until visions of peace treaties and Dynast-Queens and my family's lavish horticulture began dancing in her head. And then, as they say, one thing lead to another and—"

"That's not funny," Basch interrupted.

"I've been awake for two minutes, Captain," Balthier said. "Forgive me if I need more time to conjure up the A material." He paused to rub his eyes again and start stretching his arms. "This was simply the best way the five of us could squeeze into a tent designed to fit four."

"Be that as it may, you're a pirate," Basch countered. "You still have a reputation for me to consider."

His six years of pillaging and plundering seemed largely irrelevant in this context, given how little money the party had been able to pool together. The princess also lacked any valuable possessions beyond the wedding ring she'd already given him in exchange for leading her to Jahara to meet with the Garif (a meeting that had proven mostly fruitless, but that was another story). He concluded that Basch must have been referring to his _other_ reputation, one that the knight couldn't have learned about during the two years he spent wasting away in a dungeon. Clearly Basch must have done some research on the other members of their ensemble back at the Sandsea tavern and other locales they were likely to frequent.

Aside from the notoriety he'd earned from his career in piracy, complete with a hefty bounty on his head, Balthier also had a well-known predilection for the fairer sex. Rumors of his numerous conquests, though sometimes greatly exaggerated, had made the rounds among his fellow scoundrels, sky captains and sea dogs alike. He knew this because he would sometimes overhear such talk personally.

"Behold the brilliant Balthier," they'd say amongst themselves, "the bloke who brings every beautiful bachelorette in Balfonheim to his bed and then gives 'em all the boot!"

And while he certainly appreciated some good alliteration as much as the next educated fellow, having such sterling reputations attached to his name tended to give people a nasty case of trust issues when dealing with him, even in his most genuinely helpful moods. Case in point: the good captain.

"Is that so?" he asked Basch. "Do I really strike you as the sort of man who would molest a lady in her sleep just to get my rocks off?"

"One can never be too careful."

The pirate gave an exasperated sigh. "I think you and I need to get to know each other better."

"Some other time, perhaps," Basch said. "Now go take over the watch."

"Aye-aye, Captain," Balthier said, raising his right hand to his brow to offer a mock salute. Then he sharply brought his hand back down – and accidentally spanked Fran. The Viera made a little noise and squirmed around, but fortunately did not wake.

Basch did his best to keep from laughing hard enough to wake the others. For a moment he feared the pirate's head might burst from the rush of blood to his face. Here was a man so unflappable that upon being threatened with decapitation by Judge Ghis aboard the _Leviathan_ a few weeks ago he'd simply held his ground and spat a pithy quip in the Judge's face. And this was all it took to actually shake him?

"That… that was unintentional. And you know it."

"Whatever you say," Basch said, still holding in his laughter. "I left the blanket outside for you. Have fun out there."

Balthier rose to his feet and inched his way between the sleeping women and around the chuckling captain. "Don't _you_ try any funny stuff with Fran when I'm not looking."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Basch said, lying on his back in the newly-vacant spot in the center of the tent. "Touching a woman in her sleep? That's not what a gentleman does."

Balthier rolled his eyes and left the tent, conceding defeat (for now) and content to let the knight sleep. For his part, Basch felt satisfied to have scored a rare victory over the sky pirate in a war of words. Simply entering one with that man was like bringing a sword into battle only to learn the opponent was about to use nethicite. That was an experience with which he'd become all too familiar two years ago, when the Archadian Empire used the Midlight Shard to obliterate Nabudis.

And reflecting on his "victory" inevitably brought him back to the subject matter of their conversation.

When he'd entered the tent to wake Balthier, he was treated to a sight he'd hoped he would not see. Her Majesty had been resting her head on Balthier's shoulder and gently gripping his arm, looking so calm and content – albeit all subconsciously, but it made little difference to Basch. He reasoned that there would still be a period of awkwardness between him and Lady Ashe before she could speak to him again of more personal matters, given that she had spent the past two years being misinformed that he'd murdered her father and betrayed her country. He also knew she needed a friend in the wake of Vossler's betrayal and subsequent death, the latest blows in what had been a long run of personal tragedy for the princess; thus far the sky pirate had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable and trustworthy.

He recalled feeling the same way she did after the fall of his home country of Landis so long ago. It had been conquered by the same gluttonous Empire that would later devour Nabradia and Dalmasca. There had been a period where he'd experienced once-unfathomable anger and sorrow, along with desperation to do whatever it took to restore his country. He had joined the Dalmascan military hoping it would give him a chance, but the kingdom had stayed out of that conflict. His father was already long gone, and he feared the worst for his mother and identical twin brother Noah. Unbeknownst to Basch (until their confrontation in Basch's Nalbina prison cell), Noah had joined the Imperial Army and began his transformation into Judge Magister Gabranth, the _real_ king slayer. The guilt from this choice hung over Basch's head for years. And even after he accepted Landis's fate, he had often found himself longing for a home and a life that he could never have back.

Such was the tragedy of nostalgia.

But there was still something about this situation that didn't sit well with him. The very sight of Lady Ashe _snuggling_ with that man sent a chill down Basch's spine that he knew hadn't come from the cold. Nor was it from jealousy (he saw her more the way a proud uncle might view his niece), but rather from worry. For all of his intelligence and refined aristocratic demeanor, Balthier was still a notorious criminal wanted throughout the world for his various illegal exploits, and a man who preferred to keep his background and motives shrouded in mystery. Even when Basch had politely asked him to explain himself as they were leaving Jahara, the self-proclaimed "leading man" had brushed it off by saying he wanted "to see how the story unfolds."

It certainly didn't help matters that Basch recalled someone else the princess once knew who shared the pirate's gift for wit: the late Rasler Heios Nabradia, her former husband, who had given his life in a failed effort to save his country. The Archadians, being the cunning bastards they were, treated the royal wedding and the allied nations' state of euphoria that surrounded it as a diversion. Within the week, with the festivities just beginning to die down, the Empire attacked the Nabradian capital city of Nabudis. Lord Rasler's death via one well-placed arrow to his heart during the ensuing battle had secured the downfall of his country's monarchy and left his new bride a teenage widow. Basch could still recall how happy they'd both looked during the parade that brought them to the cathedral, and how much the princess had struggled to put on a brave face at the funeral.

"I know this is a difficult time, my lady," Vossler had instructed her (and not for the first time), "but you must stay strong for your country. And this time, also for his."

The prince's wordplay wasn't quite as sharp (nor was it _nearly_ as ribald) as Balthier's, but it had been one of Lady Ashe's favorite things about him. Basch wondered if she'd detected this similarity, or if there had been other things that drew her to this man who had bounty hunters breathing down his neck on a routine basis. Indeed, there was something oddly familiar about the sky pirate that Basch couldn't quite put his finger on, and it wasn't from any wanted posters, which could be notoriously inaccurate.

He tried to think of any Archadian noblemen matching Balthier's age and appearance that the princess may have met in the years preceding the invasion. The closest that came to mind was a young Judge that she'd met while tagging along with her father for some international summit about six or seven years ago. In fact that boy, who seemed to absolutely hate his job ("I feel like a bat in hell whenever I wear this whole getup," he'd told Her Majesty), had soon become her first serious crush. But the memory had almost faded away entirely, and the odds that this boy had traded the Judiciary for a life of piracy only to cross paths with her again in the present were infinitesimally slim.

Whether any of this meant she was finally beginning to move on or if she was simply searching for a second Rasler, Basch couldn't say. He had even less of a clue as to Balthier's intentions. But he'd spotted her gazing at him on several occasions only to look away if she sensed that anyone had seen her doing it. He'd observed the pirate admiring her figure, usually from behind, only for him to strike up a conversation with Fran before Basch could confront him about it. He hadn't paid attention until he overheard the princess and pirate chatting one morning en route to Jahara – something involving his reasoning for taking her wedding ring, though Basch couldn't make out much of what they said – before emerging from their tent to strategically interrupt.

A small part of Basch had felt rotten about doing that. After all, Lady Ashe was no longer the little girl he'd been hired to babysit all those years ago; she had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could take care of herself. On top of that he felt he owed the pirate for helping him escape prison, and Balthier had done nothing to suggest he harbored any ill intent toward Lady Ashe. Still, it was Basch's job to look after her and so he believed that it was for the best. Barring some miraculous act of redemptive heroism on Balthier's part, he doubted that either of them could prove to society at large that he was worthy of her hand. The man was an Archadian sky pirate, so there were two massive strikes against him already; the only way his credentials could get much worse would have been if he turned out to be Vayne Solidor's long-lost cousin or some such. Indeed, he could foresee no way such a relationship could ever end well. And he was fairly certain both pirate and princess would agree. They were stubborn enough to convince themselves that it was possible, but they were also smart enough to realize that it most likely wasn't.

But perhaps he was simply over-thinking things. It wouldn't have been the first time, and it likely wouldn't be the last. A man with Balthier's reputation would surely have made a more assertive advance toward the princess by now if he were truly _that_ interested. With that relaxing thought in mind, Basch promised himself to keep a more cautious eye open, just in case, and drifted off to sleep.

If he'd taken a moment to sit up and observe the princess once more he would have seen her lying on her back, anxiously clutching her share of the blanket, her head tilted toward Penelo with a troubled look upon her face.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The title of this chapter comes from "C'Mere" by Interpol. Meanwhile, the first of Balthier's various paramours appears here (there are more to come in future chapters), and I mention this because they're all based on characters from other _Final Fantasy_ games – _VIII, IX, X, X-2, _and _XIII,_ to be specific; this one is based on someone from _IX._


	3. Stray Sheep

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**1.3**_ stray sheep_

* * *

There were two things that Balthier hated about keeping the last watch. First and foremost was the sudden interruption of much-needed sleep. The second was the utter lack of anything to do except for getting lost in his thoughts.

He had taken over the watch a few hours ago, but within the first twenty minutes or so he'd concluded that once again he was the only living thing within a hundred-mile radius that was still conscious at this hour. Such an observation wouldn't have been an issue were he still back in Balfonheim, often in the company of the best-looking girl he'd met at whichever tavern he'd deemed worthy of his patronage for the night. But the icy terrain and bone-chilling winds didn't seem to make the Paramina Rift a haven for nocturnal creatures, and thus far he'd seen absolutely nothing to dispel that notion. So there he sat on a chilly stone slab, roasting by the small campfire as much as possible without actually throwing himself in it, wrapped in the heavy blanket Basch had left him, trying in vain to find ways to amuse himself.

And all of this with only his trusty Betelgeuse shotgun for companionship. That made _three_ things he hated about the watch.

Despite having been awake these past few hours, he still felt under-rested and exhausted. He figured this was the sort of thing that happened when you spent the day trudging through a snowy mountain range carrying packs full of supplies and fighting off whatever monsters felt like having you for lunch. When was the last time he'd been this physically drained? He could only think of one other time at all, and it was an incident that had actually worn him out even worse.

About six months ago the Pirate King Reddas, to whom Balthier had owed a favor, brought him and Fran along with his usual crew on a hunt for a golden idol hidden within an ancient temple built to honor an earth goddess. Upon entering they'd been faced with three trials. The first was the guardian wyrm waiting for them inside the entrance hall rather than outside. Presumably, Reddas theorized, this was to give thieves a false sense of security when they arrived. The trick had certainly worked on them. Reddas's first mate Rikken had taken an especially rough beating, and Fran had needed to use nearly all of her white magick just to get him back in action.

After the guardian's defeat it left behind a key for the second trial, a wade across an ever-deepening pool of mud to fetch the next key, which had raised all sorts of unanswered questions as to how the builders had ensured the continued irrigation of the chamber. One member of Reddas's crew, a barely-dressed golden brunette named Elza, had been all too happy to volunteer for that. "It's good for my skin," she'd explained, though anyone who knew her well enough knew how much she loved the dirty jobs. Balthier himself could barely stand to soil his cuffs and thus was happy to step aside.

Finally, and most grueling of all, he, Fran, and Reddas had to make a long climb to the idol's display that was arranged as a giant puzzle. The puzzle called for stone blocks to be pushed and pulled around to create a path to the summit. Every now and then they would be attacked by tall red-eyed sheep-like guardians walking on their hind legs and wearing Hume clothing. As they got closer to the idol the air had become increasingly hallucinogenic, giving them all visions of a vaguely feminine demon about ten stories tall with fiery eyes, blonde hair arranged in spirals, and a wide-open mouth with two rows of razor-sharp fangs. The imaginary monster had burst from the ground and chased them all the way up.

He'd lost sleep thanks to that experience as well, but for entirely different reasons. From then on, though he maintained his respect for the Pirate King, he preferred to keep his business as separate from Reddas's as possible.

About halfway through his shift on the watch Balthier found a small twig lying on the ground, one that had no doubt escaped becoming campfire kindling, and killed some time making rudimentary sketches with it as best he could in the frozen soil. It had been a favorite hobby of his as a child; as a teenager his father had perverted that hobby into a chore, forcing him to help design new weaponry and even a massive sky fortress named after the mythical king of dragons. He had let art fall out of his favor over the first year or so after leaving home, but began taking it up again after deciding he wouldn't let the old man's memory taint something he'd once loved.

Over the ensuing years he learned that drawing was a skill where one might be surprised by how much it could come in handy.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Both the chapter title and the scene with the spiral-haired demon are references to _Catherine _(a game by Atlus for the PS3 and Xbox 360), where much of the gameplay is block-pushing puzzles. The trial with the mud pit came from an old "pearly gates" joke where the recently deceased had to cross one to enter heaven and would sink a little deeper for every sin they'd committed.


	4. She's Trying To Make A Devil Out Of Me

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**1.4**_ she's trying to make a devil out of me_

* * *

"Well, this is unorthodox," a girl had told Balthier about four months ago while lying on her side in bed, propping her head up on her hand, and letting the colorful beads around her neck tap and rattle as they fell into place. "Nobody's ever asked me to pose for a portrait before."

"I find that hard to believe," he said, and he could see her violet lips form a flattered smirk as he began sketching the initial outline of her impressive curves. "But perhaps the others considered themselves incapable of doing you justice."

"And you can with a pad and pastel, can you?" she teased. It was the latest showcase of the sharp deadpan tongue that had kept him riveted from the moment he'd met her. "Careful now – I might start expecting a masterpiece."

He laughed softly as he adjusted the lighting and resumed sketching. "I'm a bit out of practice," he said, "but I shall do my best."

As opposed to his usual custom of meeting girls at night in the local watering hole of whatever town he happened to be visiting, he'd first met this girl some time after noon on a Friday earlier that year at Quayside Magickery. She was an accomplished mark hunter and more notably a devoted student of black magick, one who loved her craft enough to visit the pirates' paradise of Balfonheim in search of more scrolls; she planned to spend the night and then fly back home on Saturday. He'd been in the shop to sell a bronze mace he'd found on his most recent treasure hunt, but had also thought it prudent to browse around for any useful spells that might have been available on discount. She mistook him for an employee and asked where she could find Flare magick.

When he'd first come to Balfonheim six years ago he had taken some odd jobs in various shops around town, including Quayside Magickery, so he could raise funds toward repairing and modifying his airship, the _Strahl_. The owner hadn't altered the layout of his shop since, which was good news for Balthier whenever Fran was otherwise occupied and couldn't buy a scroll herself; he liked to call the favor his "one good deed for the day." So he helped the girl find her scroll and spent the rest of the day showing her around town, treating her to dinner and drinks at day's end. They'd parted ways for the night, met again around noon on Saturday at the magick shop, and then picked up where they left off until it came time for her flight back home.

Every couple of weeks after that first encounter, she would come back in search of another scroll to study. On some occasions when they both happened to be in town they would run into each other again and spend another weekend wandering about, having lengthy conversations and making the rounds at local hot spots. The routine had gone on for a few months by this point. This time they'd enjoyed each other's company to the point where she ended up missing her flight and couldn't make another reservation at the inn, so he offered a bed aboard the _Strahl_. He would have flown her back himself had he not planned to leave for another treasure hunt the following afternoon.

Sharing his bunk that night had been her idea. She had acquired the last scroll Quayside Magickery had to offer that she didn't already own, and she wanted to "make this visit special." It was only fair – after all, the first couple times they'd done this had been in her bed at the inn.

"Should I let my hair down?" she asked. She pointed to the black bun atop her head from which several black braids extended down to about her navel.

"You can keep it up," he answered. Then he glanced toward her legs and observed her abundant collection of belts. "Those belts may take a while, though."

"I could always take everything off," came her husky reply as she sat up.

He looked her over for the umpteenth time, admiring both the contrast of her pale skin with her low-cut black dress and also the ample bosom that was on the perpetual brink of escaping that dress's confines. It had felt good to watch her initially cold and distant personality defrost, first to the point of friendly quip-trading banter, then to more intimate conversation, and finally to this. Her fiancé had died in an accident during a mark hunt two years prior and she'd been orphaned at a young age; she was reluctant to discuss such matters at first, but the more time they spent conversing the more refreshingly open she had become. This in turn inspired him to share a few stories about life as an expatriate sky pirate – especially his more memorable close calls. Although he hadn't revealed more than he was comfortable with (nothing about his father's work or the job the old man forced him into), at least he could still talk about himself to someone not named Fran or Reddas for a change.

No, there was no way he could hope to do this girl justice. She had changed something in him. And about two months after that, when he would learn she'd begun seeing another man ("I wanted to see you again, but you never came," she would say, and he would never forget the disappointment in her eyes or the sadness in her voice), he would kick himself for letting "Black Magick Woman" become just another girl he ran away from.

"Leave the beads," he told her.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The title of this chapter comes from (what else?) "Black Magic Woman," a song originally performed by Fleetwood Mac but is best known as a Santana song. As for the girl… well, it shouldn't be too hard to deduce which _Final Fantasy X_ character inspired her.

And yes, I have seen _Titanic_! Why do you ask?


	5. I Know I'm A Sinner But I Can't Say No

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There's some more M-rated material up ahead in this chapter. And if girl-on-girl isn't your thing… well, look out below.

* * *

**1.5**_ i know i'm a sinner but i can't say no_

* * *

The snapping of his makeshift pencil against the cold hard ground brought Balthier back to the present, and he unceremoniously chucked the twig's remains into the campfire.

So much for that pastime. Now what was he to do?

Outside the snowstorm that had forced them to prematurely end yesterday's travels continued to coat the ground with fresh powdery flakes, just as it had all through the night. It had certainly been worse when they'd elected to find shelter, and Balthier was sure the rest of the party would be pleased to learn that it had climaxed early. The bad news was that thanks to the storm's persistence he wouldn't be able to peek outside to stargaze. He supposed he wouldn't have been able to see as much of the sky as he would have liked anyway, what with the Rift being a range of mountains, and so the view likely wouldn't have been as breathtaking as the starry nights in the Ozmone Plains.

Once he'd ruled out that activity he tried thinking of music, but at the moment he could only think of two songs. The first was from a distant childhood memory that had inexplicably crept back into consciousness over the last few weeks. Strangely, he'd found himself able to recall more and more of it as his journey with Her Royal Haughtiness and her little band of misfits progressed. It was a merry marching band tune that his mother had taught him to play on the piano before she got sick; she had told him the title of the piece and where she'd first heard it, but those details now remained obscure. As he tried to reproduce the melody he immediately noticed that several notes were off-key.

Rather than driving himself mad trying to think of how it was supposed to go, he shifted focus to the second song. This was something that had been stuck in his head for some time now and he could pinpoint exactly when and how it got there. It was immediately after Vossler's betrayal and the Dawn Shard's destruction of the Archadian Eighth Fleet. The princess had been showering aboard the _Strahl_, where the pirates had agreed to let the party rest to save money on lodging. He'd gone to knock on the restroom door and tell her they'd finished gathering all of their loot and would set off to sell it in the Rabanastre market once she was dressed (Fran was in one of the bunks waking Ashe's friendly neighborhood bodyguard). Then he paused for a moment when he heard her humming to herself, presumably to help her relax a little after the day's hectic events. The tune was unfamiliar, but then she continued with lyrics:_ "Melodies of life, to the sky beyond the flying birds..."_

It went something like that, anyhow. It seemed to be the only part she remembered.

But thinking of that song soon caused him to ponder the young woman who'd been its source, just as it did any other time the tune popped into his head. Then he would remember what she'd been doing at the time and begin picturing her nude, dripping wet and mostly covered in soap bubbles, asking him to help lather up her hard-to-reach spots and offering to return the favor. Such thoughts would then lead to dreams like the one he'd had tonight. The only difference this time was that her actual personality showed up and overpowered the fantasy version. The usual outcome involved her kneeling and pretending to eat a melting popsicle, or him reveling in the rhythm of her perfect ass slapping against his pelvis, or—

_Damn it all,_ he thought,_ have you learned nothing from that dream?_

Indeed, the dream's central concept of lusting after Her Majesty had not been any sort of revelation. He'd considered Ashe beautiful from the moment he first saw her in the Garamsythe Waterway, striking an iconic pose atop a ledge with sword in hand before leaping off into Vaan's arms (the lucky little bastard). Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes would have reached the same conclusion. Seemed a bit snobbish, and those anger issues were in dire need of working out, but she was a pretty girl nevertheless. Then came that day aboard the _Strahl_, after which his hormones had _really_ started going ballistic.

And it damn near drove him mad.

Was he so starved for attention from the opposite sex that he'd begun casting the least attainable woman he'd ever met in his fantasies? Could he really not last two months without wanting to pounce on the first pretty pair of X chromosomes that laid eyes on him?

Good lord, had it already been two months since his last night with a woman, or had he simply lost track of time?

The part that disgusted him most of all was how unquestionably correct Dream-Ashe had been about everything she'd said. His proverbial little black book had accumulated plenty of names over the past six years, but only two girls had spent more than a single night in his company. Of those two only one dwelled within Balfonheim's city limits, and even then their trysts had been scattered across the calendar and short-lived like fireworks in the night sky. As for the others, he could remember the faces, and he could remember the stories attached to those faces, but most of their names had been lost among the flock of one-night wonders.

There was the mild-mannered blonde schoolteacher who'd given him quite a scare when she pulled out a pair of handcuffs, chained him to the bedpost, and casually strolled into the restroom. For a moment he feared that he'd been trapped by some sort of undercover law enforcement official who knew him from the wanted posters. He'd breathed a big sigh of relief when she emerged from the restroom minutes later clad in skintight leather and confidently brandishing a whip. She broke character shortly after that, apologizing profusely for the big cut her whip had left across his torso. He'd told her to simply wrap the wound and keep going; he'd suffered worse injuries before and would again in the future. He'd forgotten her name years ago, but for some reason he still knew her safe word was "Diablo."

There was another girl with short blonde hair who wore a pinkish-purple robe that left so much of her chest, midriff, and right thigh exposed that he assumed the weaver had left it unfinished and she'd put it on anyway. She was an aspiring singer who only pursued him in hopes of making another man jealous. But her self-centered bravado belied a surprising kindness that proved her just as eager to give as to receive. They'd spent a sizeable chunk of their time together trading full-body massages, and they'd laughed whenever parts of her body slipped through his hands because the skin was still slick with oil.

Then there were the two girls who wore matching tattoos and spoke with accents he couldn't place, a brunette tomboy and her perky redhead companion. The worries in the back of his mind about which he'd choose at the end of the night had been assuaged when they invited him to help with "an experiment." It was never about him choosing, but rather about them sharing him. But even before they'd gotten things underway, though both girls proved to be vigorous and eager partners ("How's _this_ for a love triangle?" the brunette quipped from her perch above his mouth while the redhead rode him), he suspected that they were more interested in each other than in him. His suspicions were confirmed the next morning when the redhead's moaning woke him up; the first thing he saw was a close-up view of the tattoo on her hip and the brunette's head tucked between her legs.

"Thanks for indulging our curiosity," the brunette said once he was about to leave. "We needed to spice things up a bit, you know?"

"I'm not so sure," he said. "There are those who would _kill_ to share with someone else what you two already have."

"Are _you_ one of those?" she asked, cocking her head with a playful grin.

"I haven't decided yet."

"Well, _I_ hope you find it," the redhead said, resting her head against the brunette's shoulder. "This is the best feeling in the world."

"When would you say you knew you'd found it?" he asked, a question he'd never gotten to ask his parents.

"I think it's different for everyone," the brunette said. "But at some point I realized there was nothing I wouldn't do to keep her around and make her happy." She started twirling one of the redhead's pigtails in her fingers. "I would tear down the sky for this girl."

There had been plenty more where those came from, but only a couple up to now had come close to making him feel that way. The first had been "Black Magick Woman," the one he'd let get away because she was from out of town and he'd heard about all sorts of long-distance relationships with unhappy endings. He'd given her the nickname so he could pretend she was just another girl whose real name didn't endure in his memory, but still it lurked in the back of his mind, and she followed suit. The ensuing pangs of regret taught him that just because a woman was distant didn't mean she couldn't be part of his life, a lesson he'd learned too late in her case but would not soon forget.

And then there was Elza, the one who kept coming back even though she didn't want to stay.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The title of this chapter is a lyric from "Tired Of Sex" by Weezer. The girls based on characters from _Final Fantasy VIII, X-2, _and _XIII_ appear here. Oh, and that song Balthier hears Ashe singing aboard the _Strahl_ is "Melodies Of Life" from _IX_, which happens to be another story about a skirt-chasing thief and a princess who asks him to kidnap her. (Originally I transcribed the notes, but then I decided it would be more recognizable if I featured the lyrics instead.) There's another reason why that song appears, but that won't matter until Part II…


	6. Gave Her My Heart But She Wanted My Soul

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There's some more M-rated material here and a bit of girl-on-girl flirting that goes nowhere.

* * *

**1.6**_ i gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul_

* * *

Elza, the girl from Reddas's crew, was the most heavily dog-eared page in Balthier's little black book. It was a page he'd turned to frequently in the two years he'd known her. Things between them had somehow seemed to reach a point where if one started flirting with the other, the question was not _if_ they would end up in bed together, but _when_. By now he knew her body like the back of his hand – and vice versa – because their friendship came with such benefits. And she loved to reap those benefits. He'd never met another girl with such a ravenous libido.

In his experience there were three kinds of nights with Elza. First there was the kind where he was about to go off on a major treasure hunt and she'd sleep with him for superstitious purposes. Then there was the kind where he'd come back from a major treasure hunt, and she would ask him how everything went, and then she'd sleep with him to either celebrate his good fortune or console him for his lack thereof. Then there were the Elza encounters of the third kind, where one would pursue the other because it was a day that ended in Y.

They'd both grown increasingly fond of that last one.

Yet for all the time they'd spent together, their relationship status became something of a question mark. Fran had asked him about it on numerous occasions, often in between rebuffs of Elza's advances towards _her_. ("Come on," Elza would plead, "I'm only one Viera away from winning Bedroom Bingo!") Then he'd have to explain again how they were only keeping things casual. Then Fran would counter by asking why they kept going back to each other if things were never going to get more serious. Then Balthier would answer, "Because it's fun." And that would be the end of the discussion for the time being, only for it to repeat itself later on.

It wasn't as though Elza had ever wanted to leave anything in doubt. The first time she'd ever seduced him they'd had a few drinks and danced and talked for just under an hour, and then she sat on his lap and simply said, "I'm not going to mince words anymore: I want you_._"

Later that night she'd leaned in close and whispered her one rule in his ear: "You can do whatever you want with my body, but my heart is off limits. Okay?"

He agreed to it, of course. Hard to say no when the most attractive girl in Balfonheim was wrapping her legs around him and kissing his neck.

This rule had matched his philosophy in dealing with numerous other women. But the more they kept pursuing each other "just for fun," the murkier everything seemed to become. And it didn't help that she'd stonewall him every time he tried learning more about her, although he tried to probe as gently as he could.

"So why did you choose a life of piracy?" he asked her once while having drinks at the Whitecap tavern.

"Because the farm got boring," she said, and licked her lip, a gesture he recognized from playing cards against her and the rest of Reddas's crew. It was a nervous tic signaling that she'd been dealt an unfortunate hand, which made calling her bluff that much easier.

He could tell she didn't want to talk about it, so he didn't press the issue; he knew that wouldn't lead anywhere positive. Instead, most of Balthier's conversations with Elza had been sparked by random musings.

"You ever wonder why they spell 'magick' with a K?" she had asked him another time as they walked through Balfonheim, watching patrons enter and exit Quayside Magickery. "Because I wonder about that a _lot_. I mean, it's just so redundant. What's the point?"

"I have no idea," he confessed. "Hell, I'm still trying to suss out the origin of 'technicks.'"

"Oh really?" she teased. "So much smarter than me, but you can't answer a simple question about language!"

He put on a flirtatious smirk as he made his reply. "Darling, you should know better than anyone that there isn't a more cunning linguist in all of Ivalice than I."

"I think there are lots of poets and playwrights who'd disagree," she scoffed, genuinely missing his innuendo.

It hadn't been the first or the last time a joke had gone over her head. The two of them simply had very different concepts of humor. Sometimes they would meet somewhere in between, though this was less often than not. (That being said, her tongue was capable of incredible things when used in certain different contexts.)

If there was one thing he admired about her above all else, it was the sheer confidence with which she carried herself about 95 percent of the time. Anyone with her sense of fashion clearly must have had an abundance of the stuff. She would wear a red coat that came down to her navel and was only fastened a few inches above it, baring her midriff and showcasing her cleavage and a pink brassiere. The bandanna and flower she put in her hair made for slightly less material than she typically wore over her bottom half. She walked around in stiletto heels with one knee sock (she claimed to have lost its partner), which made her footrace hobby a needlessly difficult pursuit. Most notably, she liked wearing tiny black shorts that were barely enough to cover her crotch and not enough to cover her ass, and anyone who cared to look would learn that she wore nothing underneath.

"Why can't you just buy a new pair?" Fran asked at the Whitecap one evening after seeing her pull her shorts up yet again.

"The same reason you go around in a metal thong all day," Elza slurred, reaching down and giving her a love tap.

"Because your pants are traditional Viera attire?"

"No, but I like your answer better."

She would later start wearing a little pink thong over her shorts in response to Fran's concerns as some sort of warped compromise.

Shame didn't appear to be a word that existed in Elza's vocabulary. Her lifestyle was based around thinking first and foremost of seeking pleasure, the objections of others be damned. If she wanted to swim naked in the harbor in broad daylight and during business hours, she would do it. If she wanted to climb Reddas's manse after a night of drinking, she would do it – or rather she would _try_ it before someone who still had their wits about them plucked her off the wall. If she wanted to strip down to her underwear and ride a hog through town, then by the gods, nobody would stop her. It was the sort of thing that would make Balthier cringe in the moment and laugh later after he acknowledged that it made for an amusing anecdote.

"I'm a pirate, aren't I?" she would always rationalize. "My whole livelihood spits in the face of law and order. You mean to tell me I can go burglarizing and grave-robbing to my heart's content, but _this_ is crossing the line?"

And Reddas would simply shake his head and sigh like a flustered parent.

Balthier didn't understand her much, though it wasn't for lack of trying. Their treasure hunts would sometimes keep them apart for extended periods of time. She had a knack for saying things that simultaneously made _no_ sense and _perfect_ sense. And she simply didn't like to talk about herself. Nor would she let him tell her much about himself. It made their whole pseudo-relationship all the more confusing.

She'd told him once that she viewed Reddas as the father she wished she had instead of the one she actually had, but nothing more on that subject. The most he knew of the rest of her family he had learned about nine months ago while discussing her thoughts on childbirth, of all things. He could only vaguely remember how they'd gotten on the topic. They were in the Whitecap at the time, and he'd mentioned something about how remarkable it was that alcohol used to be used as an anesthetic. (To which she'd responded, "What do you mean, 'it _used_ to be'?")

"The idea of that surgery frightens me," she'd said, her mouth full with a bite of a sandwich. "Just thinking about being knocked out so the doctors can slice me open and pull this living thing out of my gut… well, I'd rather not."

He didn't reply, so she stuffed the last bit of her sandwich in her mouth.

"I suppose it's just as well," she said. "I'd make an awful mother anyway. Not that it matters, because I'm not even sure if I _can_ have children." She laughed at the very thought of it. "After all, I should have popped out a couple of _yours_ by now, don't you think?"

They were usually quite careful to avoid such outcomes, but she did have a point.

"We _have_ been lucky in that regard, haven't we?" he said. "So I take it you would prefer the old-fashioned way."

"My mother had surgery with my two sisters _because_ she had me the old-fashioned way," she said. "She told me it felt like taking a crap the size of a watermelon." There was a small hint of sadness in her ensuing snickering. "Excuse my language."

As she gulped down the rest of her ale, Balthier sat thinking about what she'd told him. He pictured himself pacing back and forth in a hallway, waiting for the doctors to finish the surgery, sipping from a bottle of wine to settle his nerves. Then he wondered how he would feel if he'd ever have to watch a woman he loved suffer through the agony of "old-fashioned" delivery, or if he'd have to receive any bad news about the child or its mother. Would he blame himself for planting the seed in the first place? And how had his own father felt all those years ago, back when he still gave a damn about such matters?

Just thinking of his father was enough to then bring him to perhaps the most difficult question of all, a question he'd long avoided but could no longer ignore: was he really a better man than Cid, or was he not? His grudge against Cid had been borne of the mad scientist's abandonment of his family, yet had he not turned his own back on them when he fled for Balfonheim? Cid eventually neglected his children born within wedlock; Balthier didn't even know if he had spawned any bastards of his own thanks to his numerous bedroom escapades with women he would never see or hear from again. And at least Cid had been a loving and attentive parent once; Balthier had no way to know what sort he'd be. Perhaps this was the ultimate test to determine the answer to that question: which man had better treated those who loved him most?

He didn't have a chance to answer these questions. Elza had pounded her mug on the bar and burped loud enough to snap him out of his reverie. "Excuse that too!" she said, laughing.

But despite all of her uncouth habits and lowbrow sense of humor, when it came time to get to work she did her job with admirable gusto. That, he figured, was the biggest reason why Reddas had been keen enough on her to let her join his crew.

Three months ago, not long after he'd spent his last night with "Black Magick Woman," Balthier had borrowed Elza from Reddas for an undercover jewel theft during a fancy party at a mansion somewhere in Rozarria (he'd needed a female partner to pose as his fiancée and be his lookout, and Fran was too conspicuous). In the weeks leading up to that burglary they'd found a tailor to customize a red cocktail dress; it fit her like another layer of skin and exposed plenty of the cleavage she was always so eager to show off. He'd also given her a crash course in etiquette and ballroom dancing to help her get into character. She took to it surprisingly well for someone he'd seen drunkenly making angels in mud the night he'd first asked her to help; he'd made sure to ask again the next day once she sobered up.

Even so, once they had infiltrated the party he'd started asking himself if taking her along had been the right idea. Not because she was any sort of threat to blow their cover, but because she was so obviously intimidated. She enjoyed herself on the dance floor, but whenever it came time to converse with the other party guests their very presence had been enough to neutralize her natural charisma. She was the _last_ person he ever would have expected to let that happen, but there she was, clinging to him during conversations, hoping she wouldn't have to say anything. It made him briefly wonder if her usual carefree demeanor had in fact been a well-constructed façade all along, that there was some deep-rooted insecurity or secret that she deemed too painful to discuss. He was quick to dismiss the possibility and chalked her behavior that night up to nerves, scolding himself for projecting his own hang-ups about the past onto her.

As nervous as she'd been, she only slipped once during this "blending in" phase. They'd been swept up into a discussion with a group of nobles and he was happy to handle most of the talking, but he soon found himself needing a drink. He went off in search of a server he'd seen carrying a tray of wine glasses, assuring Elza he'd return soon as she collected appetizers from another tray, but the task took longer than he'd anticipated. He'd almost made it back when he heard a loud belching sound coming from their group, and by the time he rejoined the group the poor girl looked utterly mortified as an especially snobby noblewoman mocked her for her rudeness.

And then, to make matters worse, the noblewoman turned her attention to _him_.

"I must say, good sir, I'm beginning to question your taste in women," she declared in the haughtiest Rozarrian accent she could muster. "She's a lovely girl, but she has the personality of a mannequin and the table manners of starving livestock."

The others laughed, but Balthier wasn't amused. "Madam, that's quite enough."

"You should have seen her," the noblewoman continued, "_gorging_ herself on the hors d'oeurves the way she did. And you plan to marry such an uncivilized girl?"

"Indeed I do," he answered, gently pulling the still-embarrassed Elza closer to his side. "But I'm afraid I've missed the part where that was any of your concern."

"Well," the noblewoman countered, now more agitated than before, "all I wish to say is that perhaps you ought to train her better the next time you let her out in public."

"And perhaps _you_ ought to keep your husband on a leash before he runs off with her," Balthier fired back. As he spoke he gestured toward the woman's husband, whom he'd caught admiring Elza's bosom as discreetly as possible. "Not that any of us could blame him for trying. And now we bid you all good night."

With that he led Elza away from the group by the small of her back, ignoring the faces of the nobles he'd just stunned into silence.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But I've had nothing to eat since breakfast, and I was _starving_, and—"

"Settle down," he whispered in her ear. "Everything is fine. In fact, I daresay you gave us an out. If that snobby old bat had kept her trap shut I would have told them the food gave you an upset stomach or some such."

"I just hope I haven't blown our cover," she whispered.

"How? By eating too much?" He leaned closer and lowered his voice even more. "Nobody suspected a thing. If they did, then we are in the company of history's greatest psychics. Not exactly a plausible scenario."

"I don't even understand what I'm doing here," she said, looking forlornly at the floor. "This isn't me. I don't belong at such a swank affair, wearing this ridiculous dress. It looks stupid on me anyway."

"What?" he said with a little chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "Elza, you look _beautiful_."

She seemed rather taken aback as if frightened by the word, or perhaps as if she'd never heard that word before, at least not from someone who meant it. "What did you say?"

"You look beautiful. Like a prim and proper young lady."

She gave a little snort and looked away. "I'm not a proper lady," she said. "I'm a pig wearing lipstick."

"No need to dwell on one minor faux pas," he said. "You're doing fine." He gave her ass a firm but affectionate slap. She made a startled little squeal, but the familiar flirtatious confidence started returning to her face. "Now let's finish this job and get out of here, shall we?"

"We shall," she said with a smile.

"That's the spirit," he said, and kissed her cheek. He then noticed the blush on her face but couldn't recall her putting on _that_ much makeup.

And then she surprised him with a kiss befitting a fiancée.

She'd continued acting differently aboard the _Strahl_ after they left that party. The typical fierceness and hunger that had become her trademarks somehow felt different that time, as if she was still playing the woman he'd chosen to marry. The way she ran her fingers through his hair; the sweet smile she flashed as she lay naked on her side atop his cot; the soft kisses she'd left all over his face and down his torso; the way she draped her arm over his chest and her leg over his, holding him after they'd finished instead of sleeping with her back to him like usual – it all felt as though a different girl was inhabiting her body. Yet it was still the most satisfying night they'd ever spent together. He'd often heard people speak of the difference between "having sex" and "making love," but that was only the second time Balthier felt as though he understood what they meant ("Black Magick Woman" being the first).

He woke up alone the next morning.

Usually Elza would stick around long enough to join him in the shower before they got dressed and parted ways, but not that time. Instead she'd seen fit to steal his pants and lead him on a wild goose chase all over town in his shirt, shoes, and underwear. He finally found her in a stable, occupying a vacant chocobo stall with his pants hanging over the door. She had him on his back in a clean pile of straw within minutes.

And that was how Balthier had learned that he suffered from hay fever.

Still, even though the morning after had gone awry, he'd felt like it was the sort of night that would mark a turning point in their… arrangement? Relationship? He wasn't sure what to call it anymore, but something told him that whatever it was, it would be different from then on.

He was right about that, but not in the way he'd hoped. Over the next month she grew increasingly distant, and he figured his globetrotting treasure hunts and her various commitments to Reddas had played a part in that. But even when he saw her in the Whitecap, she wouldn't pursue him. And if he pursued her, she wouldn't flirt back. All of this had only left him feeling even more confused than he'd been before.

Then, two weeks before the night he left to pilfer Dalmasca's Royal Treasury and two months before the current camping trip in the Paramina Rift, he spent one more night with her. Despite all the time that had passed since the undercover theft, she very obviously enjoyed her long-awaited return to his bed. At least one of them was having a good time.

Unlike the pure affection of their previous encounter or the heated passion of the numerous nights they'd shared before that, this felt like he was going through the motions. And it wasn't because she wanted to go on top and do most of the work this time; it wasn't even close to the first time she'd wanted that. It seemed strange how easily they could still fall for each other's charms after barely speaking for a month. It was stranger still that he'd seen her a few times in the Whitecap flirting with someone else and felt _jealous_, even though their arrangement had left them both free to pursue whoever they damn well pleased.

What confused him most of all was how, instead of rolling off of him when they finished as per her custom, she laid down on top of him and embraced him, her breasts pressing hard against his torso and her legs intertwined with his. It was as if she hadn't just spent a month trying to push him away.

"I really missed you," she cooed into his ear, and she kissed his cheek.

"You did?" he mumbled, gently stroking her ass. She started giggling. She always loved it when he did that.

"Of course I did," she replied between kisses. "You're my favorite."

_You're my favorite_. Not _I love you_. Never _I love you_.

This was how things had always been, wasn't it? She viewed him the way a child would a treasured toy. Every now and then she'd pluck him out of the box, play with him for a few hours, and then put him back in the box until she wanted him again.

And Balthier had treated her the same way. He wondered if any of the forgotten paramours in his little black book had felt used when they woke up alone or realized down the road that they'd probably never see or hear from him again. He couldn't resent Elza for her ways; they'd had far too much fun together for him to ever do that, and it wasn't as though he'd been a shining beacon of monogamy himself. But he sensed that most of the other girls despised him now.

Sometimes he wondered if "Black Magick Woman" was one of those girls that felt that way, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly why this possibility continued to disturb him. She'd told him to look her up if he ever found himself in her neck of the woods, and by the time he finally got around to it she had moved on to someone else. Other women had been better in bed. Still others were of comparable beauty. Hell, the naked girl lying on top of him at that very moment ticked both of those boxes. So in the weeks since meeting "Black Magick Woman," he would often ask himself: what made her so goddamned special?

And then, for the first time, the answer came to him: _everything else_.

It was the way they'd managed to turn a simple misunderstanding at the magick shop into an unofficial first date through the simple power of good conversation. It was the way she'd laughed at his jokes and responded with her own sharpened wit. It was how startled she'd been by the chilly sea water tickling her feet. It was her self-deprecating laughter when she realized she missed her flight back home and would have to spend the night in Balfonheim. It was her honesty about the unfortunate fate her fiancé had met. It was her smile from across the dinner table, her acceptance of a kiss with which he'd interrupted her view of the sunset, and the look on her face that night when he showed her the finished sketch. It was how she came out of the shower the next morning to give him a dripping-wet embrace from behind and whispered in his ear while he brushed his teeth. And it was that last kiss she'd given him before they finally parted ways for good; an aerodrome staffer had to step in and remind her that she was about to miss another flight.

It was each of those things individually, and all of them at once. And it had been within his grasp, but he had butterfingers.

So now there Balthier was, back in the arms of a girl who'd shown herself capable of the same things but still chose not to commit herself to anyone. Sometimes he supposed it was just as well that he didn't pursue anything more serious than this with anyone else. He was a sky pirate, after all, and perhaps people like "Black Magick Woman" or the dominatrix schoolteacher or the one-eyed soldier girl were better off without being dragged into his criminal underworld. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he kept going back to Elza; she was already down there with him and thus was used to that lifestyle. But these days he found himself craving evolution and being denied it by psychology.

"Elza," he suddenly murmured, "where is this going?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What is our status?"

"We're friends with benefits," she stated plainly. "That's what we've always been."

"Right," he said. "Of course."

She loosened her grip on him a bit. "Is something wrong?"

Yes, there was. He had been unreasonable with her. He wanted something more from her than she felt prepared to give. And he had always known where she stood on that issue, even on the night of the undercover theft. She was so afraid to yield on that position that she'd immediately distanced herself from him, just as she had every other time he started getting too close for comfort. He just wished he could understand _why_ all she wanted was instant gratification that instantly faded away.

But how could he say all of that without upsetting her?

"I don't know what I want anymore," he finally said.

Her face fell slightly, and he immediately knew that he'd failed. "I think I know where _this_ is going," she mumbled, and she rolled off of him, sat up, and started collecting her clothes.

"Wait," he said, and she froze as he put his hand on her hip. "For once in your life, just talk to me. What are you so afraid of?"

Elza rested on her side and twisted around to look at him. "Nothing," she said, and she licked her lips. "I just want to have fun, that's all."

Mindless fun. Was that really all she ever cared about? What did it matter? Even if it wasn't, she had successfully convinced him otherwise. But he couldn't settle for that anymore. There was far too much history between them at this point for them to understand so little about each other aside from the most sensitive parts of their bodies. And even that was nothing a well-trained acupuncturist or masseuse couldn't figure out within an hour.

So he finally decided to break down their barriers. It probably wouldn't work, but so what? It wasn't as though any progress would be made if they stayed the course.

"Let me tell you something," he said. "Before I came to Balfonheim, I used to live in Archades. My father is the head scientist at—"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I left because he forced me to—"

"Don't do this," she said. "You never had any issue with our boundaries before."

"How long did you think we could maintain that status quo?"

"Not nearly as long as we have."

"Then why did you keep coming back?"

"The same reason you did," she said. "Because it was fun." She licked her lip again.

"Has it never occurred to you," he argued, "that perhaps one of us might eventually strive for something more?"

"Of course it did," she said. "Why do you think I wanted to keep things casual? Nobody's holding a gun to your head and forcing you to waste any more time on me."

"What are you talking about? That's not what I meant."

"I never wanted things to be complicated," she said. "I just wanted—"

"The fun parts, I know," he finished. "But there must be _something_ else that you want out of this life."

She let out a long sigh and rolled on her back, her skin still glistening with sweat. She tried to stay calm and fixed her eyes upon the ceiling, leaving her facial expression as blank as possible.

"You know, Balthier," she said, "sometimes I think other animals have it right. They see someone attractive and think, 'Come over here and mount me.' And that's all there is. None of the drama, none of the baggage… just a moment of fun, and then they're done."

She got out of bed this time and started putting her clothes back on, oddly with the pink thong first this time instead of her shorts. As she spoke she pulled up her shorts as far as they could go and sat back on the bed to put on the shoes that she typically saved for last.

"Nobody worries about commitment, or financial security, or getting along with relatives, or who's leading on who, or anything like that."

She began sticking her arms through the sleeves of her coat and gave a frustrated sigh as she realized she'd forgotten to put her brassiere on first. Then she looked back at him, and he could see her shaking a little as if about to reveal something painful.

"And when _they_ leave their young to fend for themselves," she went on, "nobody's feelings ever get hurt because that's just how things are." She gave a little sniff. "Everyone's always on the same page."

He sat up, scooted over a bit, and looked into her eyes as he reached over to gently touch her. "We're not animals, Elza," he said.

Her face fell even more – eyes shut, head tilted downward, frown growing even bigger, and teeth gritted. And he realized that for once it was _her_ words that had completely gone over _his_ head.

"Of course we are," she said. "We're just more pretentious than the others."

She leaned over and gave him one more kiss. It was a tender parting token of affection from her lips to his.

"I'll see you around," she said. And then she was gone, leaving an uncomfortable air in her wake. The rest was is-this-it silence, the kind heard between the last flurry of explosions and the first traces of applause signaling the end of a fireworks display.

Balthier would see her sparingly around town after that night, but something seemed off about her. It made him think of how she'd been at the party – quiet, reserved, and downtrodden, with no sign of her usual bursts of energy and color. She didn't want to talk much, certainly didn't want to flirt with anyone. She was instead content taking up more footraces, trying to teach herself new magick spells, and going to the Whitecap to dance alone and sip some old-fashioned anesthetic.

"No need to worry," Fran assured him a week before their trip to Dalmasca. "I think she's simply trying to fall in love with herself. She will recover eventually."

"And then she'll go right back to flirting with _you_," Balthier teased, acting unconcerned though he knew Fran could tell otherwise.

"Don't mock me like that."

His last night with Elza had been the last he'd spent with _any_ woman. Two weeks later he and Fran left town in hopes of sacking the Royal Treasury of Dalmasca. Once they made it inside, they found Vaan with the Dusk Shard in his hand. Not long after that, they met Ashe in the Garamsythe Waterway.

The rest, as the old man likely would have said, was just the latest lengthy thread within history's weave.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The title of this chapter is a lyric from "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" by Bob Dylan. And while _magick_ is an arcane spelling of _magic_, as far as I can make out _technick_ was a word invented by the creators of _Final Fantasy XII _to keep that "redundant K" thing consistent.

So why cast someone who was such a minor character in the game in such a major role here, enough to include her in character tags? Well, for starters, it's _because_ Elza was a minor character – I could construct her personality from scratch to suit the story. It gave me an outlet for the goofier side of my sense of humor, as opposed to the dryer side that dominates this. It also let me hold up a mirror to Balthier, make him realize what it's like dealing with someone as secretive as he is and who runs from things when they get too painful, and show him what happens when you value total freedom a little too much.

Also, the bit with the party (specifically Elza getting a makeover) was somewhat inspired by _Pygmalion_. It didn't occur to me until after I wrote this chapter that the female lead in _Pygmalion_ was named El**i**za.


	7. How One Becomes Two

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**1.7**_ how one becomes two _

* * *

A swift icy breeze rushed through the party's makeshift shelter in the Paramina Rift and sent a jolt through Balthier's body just as he was about to doze off. He supposed he should have been thankful for it, considering the scolding he would certainly receive should anyone catch him asleep on the job. But mostly it made him appreciate the blanket wrapped around him all the more.

Even after all these hours, he was still finding it difficult to maintain consciousness. He knew his brain had just been overloaded with thoughts and memories, but he had never thought himself capable of such mental burnout. As he tightened the blanket around him he thought he heard a soft rustling and yawning from inside the tent, but nobody came out, so he thought nothing more of it.

He looked outside for a weather update and found that even though the sky was still shrouded in snow-bearing clouds it was at least brightening a bit, signifying that the night had reached its waning hours. It also meant that soon the others would awaken and they could finally quit this godforsaken place. The storm had slowed down to a more manageable level, so with any luck they'd be able to reach their destination by the day's end.

The Stilshrine of Miriam was that destination, and home to the Sword of Kings. The party had been en route to retrieving the sword, as instructed by the Gran Kiltias back at Mount Bur-Omisace, before the snowstorm had sidetracked them. For his part Balthier couldn't wait to get to the damned place; he'd follow Ashe and her entourage into the depths of hell itself if it meant getting out of this cold. Still, though he knew little of the Stilshrine itself, he vaguely remembered reading myths about its namesake in a literature course during his school days in Archades. Miriam was an ancient war goddess, and if she was anything like the relatively more recent god of war who channeled his ceaseless rage through a pair of blades chained to his wrists, the Stilshrine would make King Raithwall's tomb look like a frolic in the bloody park.

But it was the Sword of Kings itself that captured his interest more, and not because it was almost certainly worth a small fortune. The Sword of Kings was a blade capable of destroying nethicite, stones with the rare ability to absorb Mist, the source of all magick. And when that Mist was released, the results had proven to be catastrophic.

Balthier only knew where to find three shards of nethicite, all of which had accumulated centuries' worth of Mist since being cut by Ashe's ancestor, the Dynast-King Raithwall. One was the Dawn Shard, the now-empty stone that singlehandedly blasted the Eighth Fleet out of the sky and which Penelo now kept in her pocket under the delusion that it was some sort of lucky charm. The second was the Midlight Shard, which the Empire had used to conquer Nabradia by leveling its capital city and thus was also powerless. The third was the Dusk Shard, which Vaan had beaten him to stealing from the Dalmascan Royal Treasury, was given to Judge Ghis upon their capture in the Rabanastre sewers, and by now had no doubt made its way back to Draklor Laboratory.

In other words, the only remaining shard of nethicite that still had any potential use as a weapon had fallen into his father's hands. And if there were any man in Ivalice who knew what to do with it, Dr. Cid was that man.

To make matters worse, the old man was a master manipulator whose work with nethicite had caused a descent into madness and amorality. Who knew what Cid truly wanted with the stuff – or with Ashe, for that matter? Just what the hell were those voices in his head telling him to do, anyway? Balthier certainly didn't know, but if it involved using any more nethicite as a weapon he knew he had to help stop it somehow if he could. And if that meant trying to convince the princess not to use it, then it was worth sticking with her.

Of course, it didn't hurt that this meant he'd be following a beautiful girl to the ends of the earth. Every job had its perks.

His latest train of thought was promptly derailed by a louder rustling from inside the tent. There was no doubt about it this time – someone inside was awake. Judging from the other noises he could hear, that someone was definitely female. Indeed, as soon as that thought crossed his mind a feminine hand pushed open the tent flap and out stepped a very sleepy Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca.

_Well, well, well,_ Balthier thought. _Speak of the devil, and she shall appear._

* * *

**END OF PART I**

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The chapter title is a part of a lyric from "Make It Wit Chu" by Queens Of The Stone Age – a song that probably would have suited the first chapter quite well, now that I think about it.

The "angry god with blades chained to his wrists" refers to Kratos from _God of War_, whose quest for power and vengeance against the gods of Olympus ends up completely wrecking the world he lives in, and it gives him no sense of peace or satisfaction to boot. In other words, a worst-case scenario for a certain deposed princess...

So what can you expect from Part II? More of the usual dry humor, a little fun at the expense of a certain flamboyant Rozarrian… oh, and none of the M-rated stuff. That's all out of the way now. And while I'm on the subject of "things I could have done differently with the first chapter," I suppose I could have used the next chapter to open this story if I really wanted to, but _noooooooooo_…


	8. A Twinge In Your Heart

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** "So have you got the guts? Been wondering if your heart's still open, and if so I want to know what time it shuts."

As I said at the end of the last chapter, all the M-rated material was in Part I, but in its place we will now clearly have nothing but pure smiles and sunshine.

* * *

**PART II**

"_What's this dying for?" asks the Stork that soars_

_With the Owl high above canyons' mighty walls._

_Owl said, "Death's a door that love walks through,_

_In and out, in and out, back and forth, back and forth."_

\- TV On The Radio, "Stork &amp; Owl"

**ALL OF A SUDDEN I MISS EVERYONE**

* * *

**2.1**_ a twinge in your heart_

* * *

If someone had asked Balthier to choose a single word with which to describe Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca (how he loved the sound of her full name, the contrast between the soft beauty of her first name and the rougher-edged consonants of her family name and the seamless flow of it despite that contrast), he would more likely mock the enterprise than answer truthfully. Of course, his reaction would be the same whether the question regarded Ashe or a man living on the moon. How could one word encapsulate the character of any individual, no matter how important or familiar such a person might be? Even the simplest of people were far too complex to be adequately summed up that succinctly.

However, if that someone were to hold a gun to his head and ask the question again, he would crack a quick joke about them taking their game too seriously before settling on _intense_. So much about her was exactly that – her walk, her voice, her focus on what she wanted, the determination with which she pursued those goals, all of it. It made him wonder if he had ever been as passionate about anything as she was about setting her kingdom free. At least he didn't have to question whether he and Fran and the others were risking life and limb just to help a pampered rich girl move back into her fancy palace. That had to count for something.

Still, as admirable as that intensity could be, there was always the yin to the yang.

The biggest reason he worried so much about her current pursuit of the nethicite's power was the furious grudge she held against the Empire. While he didn't blame her for raging against Archadia, her quarrel was with those who ran it. It was not against the millions of innocent souls who made up the rest of that populace, the lives she'd be risking by even contemplating the use of the blasted stones. Such a choice would make her no better than the Imperials themselves, who had wiped out her late husband's homeland the same way. If this struggle were to be worthwhile, she would need to prove to the Vaans and Penelos of the world that they were better off with her than without.

And speaking of Lord Rasler, there was also the nagging issue of that phantom groom shadowing her everywhere. She and (for some bizarre reason) Vaan were the only ones who'd been able to see the ghost, and it all gave him an eerie sense of déjà vu; he remembered his father following and conversing with an imaginary friend of his own. Balthier had publicly dealt with it by jokingly asking Vaan what the ghost looked like, if only to get a sense of the princess's taste in men. That she was still so troubled by Rasler's death two years later indicated that, despite the arranged nature of their marriage, he would have been her hand-picked suitor anyway. No one had ever loved Balthier that much. It was the first time he'd ever felt so envious toward a dead man.

As he sat by the campfire in the Paramina Rift, he could feel the chilly wedding band pressing against his thigh from within his pocket. He had taken it as collateral for his services, though Ashe was initially hesitant to hand it over. It was just another sign that she still had yet to give up the ghost, so to speak. But even Fran hadn't been thrilled by his choice of payment, and she'd made her objection clear when they crossed the Dalmasca Estersand on the way to Jahara.

"Of all the things you could have taken from her," the Viera asked as they tramped through the scorching desert, "why did it have to be that?"

"She has nothing else of value to offer," he explained. "I'm a pirate, am I not? I must live up to my billing as a heartless cur that – what was that flattering little thing she said? – 'thinks ever and always of his own profit.'"

He had overheard the princess say that to the eventual turncoat Vossler while helping Fran scour Raithwall's tomb in search of any valuables. The remark had stung more than he cared to admit. Here he was going out of his way to help her, albeit in exchange for treasures that she'd promised, and she still thought of him as a selfish piece of trash. Such a sour perception of his character was bound to embitter him towards her in return, even though it wasn't without merit. It did raise the question of why she'd been so quick to trade the Dawn Shard for his life aboard the _Leviathan_ though.

"If you truly were the scum you claim yourself to be, I _never_ would have stuck with you as long as I have," Fran said. "But sometimes you sink your teeth so deep into the role that I almost forget."

"As if that makes me so much worse than someone who seems hell-bent on watching the Empire burn," he replied.

Fran snickered a little. "You're right, that sounds nothing like anyone I know at all."

"I know where you're going with this, Fran," he said, shooting her an irritated glare. "But that was different."

"'I have no love left for the motherland. The whole of Archadia can burn to the ground for all I care,'" she quoted, mimicking his theatrical flair but not bothering to attempt his smooth upper-class Archadian accent. "Stop me if you have heard any of this before."

"I was an overly emotional teenager back then."

"And Ashe isn't?"

He opened his mouth to reply but could find no words, so instead he simply breathed a heavy sigh and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. If there was one person in all of Ivalice who truly knew how to get through to him, it was his longtime partner in crime. She was the six-foot-tall bunny-eared elder sister he'd never had, a rare gift from the gods bestowed upon him in his darkest hour. Her intuition was rarely wrong, and if it ever was it wasn't off by much. It was especially impressive for someone who began her life in Eruyt Village, a hermit society that convinced itself the outside world wasn't worth exploring or understanding.

"She may not wish to show it," Fran continued, "but her heart aches now just as yours did then, if not more. Ease up on her from now on, would you?"

She didn't wait for him to answer, choosing instead to help Penelo steady her arrow quiver, and so Balthier had been left to his thoughts. As he looked ahead toward the princess, he resolved to heed Fran's advice and start contemplating whatever she might have kept in her heart. He also struggled to not be distracted by the slight sway of her hips with every step she took, bewitching as it was.

The matter of Rasler's wedding band resurfaced a few nights after that in the Ozmone Plains, and this time he'd brought it up himself. It was another one of those nights where he'd gotten stuck taking the last watch. Ashe ended up being an early riser and took a seat on the opposite side of the campfire. She was surprisingly easy to talk to when she wasn't obsessing over her vendetta against the Empire from dawn till dusk, but he couldn't help noticing how she kept rubbing the finger where the ring in his pocket used to be.

"You miss your ring, don't you?" he asked.

"It's a nervous habit," she lied. "I just hope you don't barter it once we reach Jahara."

"I wasn't even going to try," he said. "You have no reason to trust a thing I say, given my chosen profession, but I am in fact a man of my word. Honor among thieves and all that."

The princess appeared to relax a bit – she stopped fussing with her finger, anyway – but he could tell she still didn't quite trust him. This seemed as good a time as any to tell her the whole truth, or at least as far as his payment was concerned.

"Look at it this way, Ashe," he said. "If I keep that ring out of sight, perhaps it might help you keep _him_ out of mind."

She glared at him through the fire. He wasn't sure which of the two was more heated.

"That's an interesting bit of spin you're doing," she said. "You know as well as I do that you took it for yourself."

Typical royal, always expecting the worst from career criminals. And here he thought _he'd_ grown cynical.

"So you can read minds now, eh?" he joked, a futile attempt to lighten her mood.

"You said you needed compensation," she answered. "Why else would you want it?"

Continuing to tease her would undoubtedly only make things worse – a shame, considering their conversation had gone well prior to breaching this topic. This time he addressed her seriously and sincerely.

"Because it isn't doing you any good," he said. "Carrying his ring around, seeing his apparition everywhere – you'll drive yourself mad, Ashe."

_Just like my father before you…_

"That isn't what you want, is it?" he asked.

Finally her gaze softened. She tucked herself into a little ball with her legs crossed at the ankles and glanced down into the fire.

"He was my husband," she said. "He was my friend." She looked back up at him with dejected eyes and a slowly growing frown. "You would have me act as though he never existed?"

He shook his head. "I said nothing of the sort."

"Then what would you have me do?"

"You need to stop letting him haunt you," he advised. "Only then will you truly start to heal."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Would that it could be that easy," Balthier said, thinking of a thirteen-year-old boy who sought comfort in the wake of his mother's death and found none. "But it never is. That being said, it's certainly nothing that you can't handle."

"There's so much to handle all at once," she said. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."

Not strong enough? This was one of the toughest women he'd ever met, one who was born into power, devoted her life to fighting for her country, and was destined for the history books regardless of her decisions. And she didn't consider herself strong enough?

_Even the strongest of us have our scars_, he reminded himself. _Some of us are simply better at hiding them than others._

"Of course you are," he said. "Just take it one step at a time. If you can lead the _resistance_ against the largest and most powerful military force ever known to man, then you can overcome this."

He made sure to emphasize the princess's preferred nomenclature, quick as she was to correct anyone who dubbed it an insurgence. Her frown twitched for a split second, most likely an acknowledgement of his word choice, but aside from that it remained in place.

"I couldn't lead the resistance on my own either," she muttered.

He gave a little chuckle, gently shaking his head, then leaned forward and looked her in the eyes.

"Princess," he said, "no one ever said you had to do _anything_ on your own."

That line seemed to do the trick. Perhaps it was actually the campfire's reflection, but he spotted the spark returning in her eyes. She straightened up her posture with reinvigorated confidence. Through the fire he could see her lips gradually curving upward, and he wasn't sure which of the two radiated more warmth. It was the first smile he had seen on her face since the day he met her.

She looked as though she wanted to say something else. Then Judge Gabranth's good twin came crawling out of the tent, bringing their chat to an abrupt end, and gave the fakest-sounding yawn Balthier had ever heard in his life.

It was fortunate that Basch had found himself a niche in the military. He never would have stood a chance in the theater.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The title of Part II comes from an album by Explosions In The Sky. All the chapter titles from here on out are linked, so I won't explain that until the end. And the author's note quote is a lyric from "Do I Wanna Know" by Arctic Monkeys.


	9. Far More Powerful Than Memory Alone

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**2.2**_ far more powerful than memory alone_

* * *

Indeed, on the rare occasions when the princess allowed herself to loosen up, take a break from "I must endure" mode, and reveal her softer side, Balthier found her rather endearing. During the party's visit to Jahara, while their comrades were off shopping for supplies, he spotted her over by the chocobo pen giving a big yellow bird a much-appreciated scratching on its long neck. It conjured images of princesses from old folk tales that she otherwise contradicted in so many ways, the sort that befriended woodland creatures and sang along with the robins and sparrows. He chuckled to himself, musing that of course the most outward display of affection she'd shown anyone since they had met would be toward this animal, and strolled over to join her.

"There you are, Princess," he said. "I see you've made a friend."

"When I was a child, I had one just like him," said Ashe. She gave a little sigh as her thoughts briefly turned to her much-loved and long-lost pet, which had fallen terminally ill when she was fourteen and had to be euthanized to end its suffering. "If only we had sufficient funds for a few of them. It's been so long since my last ride."

"I suppose it's just as well," he said. "You and Basch are likely the only ones among us who would know what they were doing."

"You never learned to ride?"

"Never had a single lesson," he said, shaking his head. "It's a bit old-fashioned for my taste. I prefer the sort of birds made from gears and bolts." He took a quick glance at the chocobo. "No offense intended," he assured it.

"It really isn't that difficult," she said. "In fact, it's quite fun once you're accustomed to it."

In her younger days, riding was a hobby that she'd shared with some of her brothers. As she grew older and her family started growing smaller, it became something of a solitary escape, a chance to clear her head and appreciate the beauty of the world in spite of its obvious cruelty.

"That's easy for you to say," Balthier said, leaning against the fence and running a hand through his perpetually well-maintained hair. "Then again, I suppose the right teacher _would_ make all the difference."

She looked over at him with a little grin. "And if I were to instruct you," she asked, "what would you do for me?"

He put on a playful smirk, cocked his head, and raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"You could always teach me how to fly."

"So you'll know what you're doing the next time you want to steal my ship?" the pirate teased, recalling her ill-advised attempt to fly the _Strahl_ to Raithwall's tomb on her own. "Nice try, Ashe."

"Of course you'd say no," Ashe replied as the chocobo lowered its head enough to let her gently wrap her arms around its neck and stroke its feathers. "You wouldn't want Vaan thinking you were playing favorites, would you?"

"Oh, heaven forbid," Balthier said.

They both laughed a little at that, but not out of a mutual distaste for Vaan. It was obvious that the boy meant well, but he could be a bit too headstrong for his own good. He was also very much lacking a sense of tact, which he would later demonstrate in Eruyt Village when he outright asked Fran about her age. Sometimes Balthier forgot that the seventeen-year-old aspiring sky pirate was only five years younger than he was, and _two_ years younger than the princess.

"Have you ever wanted to learn how to shoot?" he continued.

"I never gave it much thought," she answered. "I'm perfectly comfortable with a blade."

"That you are," he said. "But a gun can do the same job, only quicker and easier. No need for you to get up close and personal with any especially nasty foes."

She took a moment to think it over. "There's logic in that," she said.

"So," he asked, extending his hand for her to shake, "do we have an accord?"

"We should get this in writing first," she said. "That way it'll be easier holding you to it."

The sky pirate gave another soft chuckle. "Clever girl," he said. "You truly were born to be a diplomat."

She flashed a wistful little smile this time and rested her head against the chocobo, hugging the bird a bit tighter than before.

"I learned from the best," she murmured.

The conversation ended as Vaan came jogging through the village, eager to show off his new sword. The rest of the party had joined them soon after that and they set off for Mount Bur-Omisace with forced detours through Eruyt Village and the Henne Mines. As for the pirate and princess, it seemed that nearly every time they'd had a chance to chat someone or something would show up to interrupt before long. Sometimes it was Penelo having abrupt "hey, look at this" moments that befitted a young girl exploring the world for the first time, or little Lord Larsa asking questions about her while hiding his nerves. Other times it was Vaan needing to be rescued after he picked yet another fight with a beast out of his league. And then, of course, Basch would occasionally swoop in with an _obviously_ innocent question for the princess about the party's next move. Soon Balthier began to wonder if it was all happening on purpose, as if the gods themselves had aligned against the growth of their friendship. All he wanted to do was make a little small talk with a pretty girl. The last time he checked, that wasn't considered a mortal sin – not that he kept himself up to speed with such matters.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I figured it would make sense for Ashe to have a soft spot for chocobos. During the closing credits, there's a picture of her as a little girl hugging one. (Ironically, I'd say the chocobos in _XII _look like the least huggable of the series.)


	10. It's A Time Machine

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**2.3**_ it's a time machine_

* * *

And now here Ashe was, joining him at the campfire in the Paramina Rift. Judging from her cautious crawling exit from their tent, Balthier concluded that the others were still asleep. He remained unsure how long it would be until the rest of the crew decided to rise and shine, but no matter. He was grateful to at least have _some_ company for the time being. Perhaps he was simply going stir-crazy from sitting around with so little to do for so long, but he figured he was a hair's breadth away from making shadow puppets on the walls and improvising a dialogue.

_Just what Ivalice needs_, he thought, _another Bunansa driving himself utterly insane._

"Good morning, Your Royal Drowsiness," he greeted the princess. "Did you sleep well?"

Ashe yawned and took a seat at the opposite end of the long stone that had been Balthier's makeshift bench, grimacing slightly as she felt the cold rock beneath her. "I never sleep well anymore," she said.

"Did you at least have pleasant dreams?"

"If I did," she replied, "I would still be trying to sleep."

"I guess that means I wasn't in any of them," the sky pirate joked, showing his signature smirk.

"You wouldn't want to be in the dreams I've had lately."

Ashe typically didn't remember her dreams, not even the happiest ones. But the worst of the lot tended to stick with her. The last nightmare that she could fully recall had ended with her people dragging her kicking and screaming to a guillotine in the Rabanastre town square. Given the choice, she would gladly take the usual amnesia and go about her business without giving it a second thought.

She'd had that one shortly after leaving Eruyt Village for the last time. Upon Fran asking if the Wood hated her, her elder sister Jote had said the Wood instead longed for her return; Fran had immediately seen through that lie. Ashe had briefly wondered if the Dalmascan people thought of her the way the Wood now viewed Fran: _She abandoned us. She deserves to rot._

The accepted narrative for the last two years had been that she'd taken her own life after her father's murder. Sometimes she wanted to just blurt out the truth: that her uncle (Halim Ondore, Marquis of Bhujerba and highly convincing liar) had fabricated her suicide to protect her from being hunted down, and she would never turn her back on Dalmasca. But what good would that do when she could walk around her own capital city in plain sight with a pseudonym – her mother's name – as her only disguise and still not be recognized? It made her worry sometimes about how many of her people now accepted or even preferred living under Vayne Solidor's thumb. She quickly dispelled that worry by reminding herself how much the Empire had worsened the quality of life for far too many Dalmascans, forcing them out of their homes and into the underground slums of Lowtown. But every time she overheard someone question how a girl who couldn't cope with loss could ever have been a competent queen, every time someone grumbled that "at least Rasler went down fighting," that feeling would poke its ugly head back above the surface.

Thankfully, she sensed that her latest dream had nothing to do with any of that. The reason for her early rise this time had been the worst kind of unpleasant dream: a nightmare in disguise. It had started off so comforting, as though she'd earned everything she desired (her kingdom and title restored, the admiration of her people, and a husband and children who loved her and each other just as her parents and siblings once did). It had stayed that way for some time before finally stripping that feeling from her all over again and thus showing its true hideous colors. She couldn't even remember anything specific about it, but this nightmare had kept her lying awake for the past twenty minutes or so as she tried in vain to relax. All she knew was that she'd woken up with a vague but familiar sense of dread, the same sort she'd felt two years ago as Basch solemnly approached her to explain why her husband was lying motionless on a gurney.

It was the sort of dream that made her glad to forget the details of her dreams. It was also the sort of dream that made her wish she could remember, if only so she could understand why she woke up in a cold sweat with her heart thumping hard enough that she feared it would explode.

Worst of all, she couldn't tell anyone about it even if she did remember. It was just as Vossler had always instructed her: _Be strong. Keep a stiff upper lip. Don't let anyone see you crack, or they _will_ exploit it._ After all, people had their own baggage to carry without worrying about lightening her load, didn't they?

She'd had far too many opportunities to practice her poker face by now. Frankly, it was frustrating to know that there were still people who wouldn't buy it.

"You do not fool me," Judge Ghis had taunted her as she sat in a cell aboard the _Leviathan_. "Beneath all of your rebellious bravado, you are naught but a sad and frightened child, crying for her mother and father. Make no mistake about this: you and your little _insurgence_ intimidate no one."

"_Resistance_," she'd spat at him. "If you're going to insult us, at least get our name right."

Vossler would have been proud of her for that. Of course, Vossler had also advised her to settle for having her home and title back, but still acting as Vayne's puppet queen. She hadn't taken well to that idea. Nor had the sky pirate, of all people, whom she had expected to care the least about her affairs. His reward for this loyalty was a sword aimed at his throat, courtesy of Judge Ghis. He responded by unflinchingly telling the Judge, "At least your sword is to the point." It was as if he knew somehow that Ghis wouldn't follow through on the threat. But that wasn't a chance Ashe had been willing to take.

"Well, that's the one good thing about a bad dream," Balthier said. "All you have to do is wake up and it's all over."

"I suppose," she mumbled, and let out a little sigh as she sought a new topic to discuss. "I could barely get comfortable in there. Yet it's still better than the sewer, which only makes this the _third _-worst place I've ever slept."

"You actually have a list?" he asked, snickering.

"Unfortunately, I do."

Frequent relocation had been among the consequences of going into hiding. The Empire may have believed Princess Ashelia to be dead and buried, but the Resistance leader Amalia was still alive, at large, and among the top-ranking names on their Most Wanted list. It almost made disguising her identity seem pointless; she'd removed one target from her back only to paint a new one with different colors, and if she had to bear one she might as well have kept the one she'd been born with. But it also meant she couldn't stay too long in the same place.

And that was before she and her newfound entourage had set out on this globetrotting journey. Between the irritating sand of the desert surrounding Rabanastre, the cold and sterile cell aboard the _Leviathan_, the sweltering heat of the Golmore Jungle, and now this place, that list of hers was growing far too quickly for her liking.

"I take it the sewer was number one?"

The princess shook her head. "The sewer was number two."

"Wait a minute," Balthier asked, cocking his head, "something was actually worse than the sewer?"

She nodded this time. "Something was actually worse than the sewer," she confirmed. "And I'm _not_ telling you what it was."

He supposed he could handle any answer as long as she avoided Al-Cid Margrace's bed at all costs, but no matter. She'd only just met Al-Cid; it wasn't worth worrying about at the moment.

"Leave me in suspense, why don't you," he said. "Whose idea _was_ it to base your resistance movement in a sewer, anyway?"

"Not mine."

"Of course not. If I were a betting man – and as luck would have it, I am – I'd put my money on Vossler."

"Good guess," she said, wincing a little at the mention of that name. "He said it would keep us close to the city while still being spacious enough to offer an abundance of hiding places."

"Something tells me your delicate royal sensibilities were quite offended by the notion of living in a sewer," the pirate observed.

Ashe nodded her head again. "I told Vossler on several occasions that I'd rather sleep in a pigsty."

"Well, I certainly hope he didn't call your bluff."

She groaned and wrinkled her nose in adorable disgust, or perhaps as if trying to keep an unsavory memory repressed. "I… I won't even dignify that with a response," she said.

"That was number one, wasn't it?" he teased.

"Stop it."

"To think I once believed Vossler had no sense of humor!"

"That's not funny. Can we _please_ drop this?"

"As you wish," he said, but he still had a little laugh at her expense.

With the subject finally dropped, they sat at the campfire in silence for a moment. Yet it was a silence that they couldn't enjoy. Each of them wanted to keep talking, but neither was entirely certain that the other wanted the chat to continue. Both were racking their brains in pursuit of something new to discuss just to pass the time, but something other than the Sword of Kings. There'd be plenty of time to dwell on that later and it was better to discuss the plans for the day with everyone awake, even if Vaan and Penelo momentarily diverted their own attention to rattling off their top five favorite swashbuckling pulp novel heroes. Fortunately they found they could still rely on one classic last-resort small talk standby.

"You're looking a bit chilly over there, aren't you?" Balthier asked, noticing that the princess was visibly shivering from the cold.

"What tipped you off?"

"We've been traversing through a mountain range in the middle of a seemingly perpetual snowstorm. Call it a hunch." He paused to look her over again. "Plus, I think your legs are beginning to turn blue."

"How very astute of you," she said. "I'm not sure whether to appreciate your concern for my legs or scold you for staring at them too much."

He chuckled some more at that – not that he was about to take his eyes off her, though. "Relax, Princess," he said. "It's only a bit of humor."

"You're lucky I've grown accustomed to your particular brand of humor," she said. "Three weeks ago I would have found such remarks slap-worthy."

"Nice to see I'm finally starting to grow on you."

"Like a cancer," she said with a snort.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said. Of course he couldn't just leave it at that, so he loosened his grip on the blanket, inched toward her a bit, and held out some of the thick soft fabric. "Would you care for a blanket?"

"No thank you," she said, "I'll be all right." She clenched her mouth shut so he wouldn't hear her teeth chattering.

"As you wish," the pirate said again. "Wouldn't want you catching your death of cold out here, though."

"If I decide that I need it, you'll be first to know."

Ashe continued to shiver in spite of her adamant insistence upon going without the blanket, but Balthier knew that she was if nothing else a woman of great conviction. Once her mind was made up, she could be exceedingly difficult to coax into reconsidering. If he couldn't talk her into taking it, he could at least play with her a little more.

"At the very least," he said, "a change of clothes might have done you some good."

Now it was her turn to smirk and snicker. "Complaining about the view?" she asked as she began to stretch her legs.

"Oh, Princess," he joked, stealing a glance at her thighs when she wasn't looking. "And here I thought you'd know me better by now."

Her thin smile grew a little as she twisted around and brought her leg across her body to stretch different muscles, pausing only to brush her short blond hair away from her eyes. How could such a basic and routine exercise look so innocent and so alluring at the same time? Even something as simple as walking could appear that way with legs as smooth and limber as hers. And now that she wasn't wearing any armor over her legs or wrists or arms, having taken it off before bed, he couldn't help noticing just how much bare skin her usual attire left exposed…

_Take it easy, old sport_, he thought, observing that all her stretching had brought her a couple of inches closer.

"All I'm trying to say," he continued, "is that perhaps the micro-skirt was a tad impractical."

That damned skirt… what a tease that was. And what an eye magnet. It made him want to track down whoever designed it and shake their hand for somehow leaving everything and nothing to the imagination all at once. The skirt clung so tightly to the curves of her wide hips and heart-shaped ass that the slits on the sides could trick one into thinking it was bursting at the seams. She wore a thick blue belt to hold it up, though stitching three such belts together would likely have covered the same amount of territory. It looked less like a proper skirt and more like a magenta censor bar.

"I hadn't anticipated having to come all this way on foot," Ashe explained. "But I happen to think it's the most effective part of my wardrobe."

"It's certainly eye-catching. I'll grant you that."

"Good," she said, "so we're both fond of the color."

She looked over at him and waited for his laughter to die down before going on. Though she wouldn't admit it out loud, she did enjoy these little word games on some level. As an added bonus she now had an opening to admire his tight leather pants and wonder why he couldn't borrow some fashion tips from Vaan and lose the shirt for a while. He always took great pains to keep himself looking impeccably clean and maintain a top-notch physique. She sensed that it would be worth his inevitable complaints about the cold, especially when considering the dulcet tones of his voice; though she despised the country that birthed him, she did enjoy that suave accent he'd developed there. She could scold herself for the impropriety of these thoughts later – and also pretend certain _other_ thoughts lurking in the back of her mind didn't exist.

Balthier contradicted nearly every notion she'd ever previously held about pirates. She'd seen others who shared his profession being hauled off to dungeons or read about them in books, but had never encountered any quite like him. Pirates were supposed to be low-class rough-and-tumble types with crude vocabularies, people who valued enriching their own wallets and legends above all else but would otherwise settle for a good fight and a better drink. This one carried himself with the grace and intellect of a noble gentleman who harbored little fondness for fisticuffs and lived by his own code of honor. The dashing good looks certainly didn't hurt either.

But she could _not_ let herself get caught staring. He would tease her about it relentlessly. And he would do so in such a way that could genuinely indicate either interest or mockery, or possibly even both at once. The man played his cards so close to the vest that they might as well have been stitched into the fabric.

She found him _infuriating_. She found him _fascinating_.

"But you wouldn't expect a royal to walk around in something like this, would you?" she went on.

"Obviously you haven't met any of Al-Cid's sisters," Balthier said, hoping he wouldn't regret invoking the proper name of the man he'd promised himself he would remember solely as the Foppish Rozarrian Twit.

"You know them?" the princess asked.

"Not nearly as well as he thinks," he answered. "I'd correct him, but it's too much fun watching him agonize over the possibilities."

He'd met a pair of fetching twins by the name Margrace at another party he'd infiltrated in Rozarria about a year ago. They made some friendly small talk, but he opted to take his leave once he sensed their brother watching him like a hawk when not braying about his fancy new state-of-the-art personal airship (that someone else would fly and maintain for him, naturally) or the renovations being made to his already posh bedchamber. The word on the street was that Al-Cid had caught one of the twins in his bed later that night with a man matching Balthier's description. Judging from the Foppish Rozarrian Twit's treatment of him at Mount Bur-Omisace, those rumors were apparently well-founded.

Not that he'd been especially friendly toward the prince either, of course.

"Speaking of which," Ashe said, "what did _you_ think of Al-Cid?"

_Oh lord_, he thought, _here we bloody go._

"Truly delightful," came his monotone reply. "Why do you ask?"

She flashed the most innocent-looking knowing smile he had ever seen and said, "Fran told me the look on your face was priceless."

"Did she now?" he said, feigning nonchalance. "I think I may need to have a little chat with her later vis-à-vis the value of my facial expressions."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The little bit about Vaan and Penelo making a Top 5 list is a reference to _High Fidelity_.


	11. It Takes Us Backwards, Forwards

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**2.4**_ it takes us backwards, forwards…_

* * *

Indeed, Balthier had been quite irritated by Al-Cid's excessively flamboyant demeanor. Everything about that man, from the flourish with which he removed his sunglasses to the flowery vocabulary and hammy delivery he'd employed to woo the princess, dripped with obnoxiousness and arrogance. It was like watching a caricature of the dapper and charming gentleman Balthier had striven so hard to become.

It didn't help matters that the Foppish Rozarrian Twit had treated Ashe to a glass or two of Bhujerban Madhu, one of the strongest liqueurs in Ivalice, and tried to talk her into visiting his family's lavish gardens in the Ambervale. Balthier hadn't realized what drink it was until Al-Cid sent his assistant (he called her his "little bird," but treated her more like a pack mule; she was _still_ carrying his sunglasses from earlier, among other personal effects) to fetch a bottle of the stuff. Ashe did her best to keep things professional, but anyone not named Al-Cid could see that she felt a bit uncomfortable. Surely he must have understood that she had more important things to consider than the lecherous whims of a self-absorbed prince. But there he was, constantly trying to touch the poor girl's hands and lecturing her ears off about how she simply _must_ come to Rozarria because it was _so beautiful_, just like _her_, and all without a single attempt by her loyal watchdog to make him back off. Yet if Balthier had tried to pull the exact same stunt, Basch would surely have smashed the Madhu bottle over his head in protest.

Such were the perks of being spawned by the right loins. These were also the perks of not being a pirate with a bounty on one's head, but by virtue of birth Al-Cid was still more likely to get away with this behavior than Ffamran Bunansa.

And so it had fallen to the sky pirate to invent some fib about swords being on discount, knowing that Ashe wanted an upgrade. He also included a caveat: the sale was only for the day and the shops would be closing soon.

"You haven't finished your drink, my Desert Bloom," Al-Cid had said.

"I'm sorry," she said politely, "but I doubt I can handle another drop."

"No worries, I'll finish it," Balthier said. And with that he had downed the rest of her mostly full glass (which thankfully contained mostly ice), much to the Twit's displeasure. "Cheers, my lord."

"What do you think you're doing?" the Rozarrian fumed. "Just who do you think you are? That drink was for the lady!"

"And she appreciates the gesture, I'm sure."

The flustered prince then refocused on Ashe for another appeal. "My lady, how can you tolerate such rudeness?" he asked. "I cannot possibly _fathom_ the depths of depravity you must be subjected to on a daily basis."

_With all due respect, my lord_, Balthier had wanted to say, _there are a great many things that you cannot possibly fathom._

"Not nearly as deep as you may think," she told Al-Cid. "But even if it was, though I thank you for your concern, I can look out for myself."

Bhujerban Madhu was not the sort of drink that was meant to be consumed so quickly. It was a rather subtle liqueur that went down relatively easy but wrecked its consumer that much harder later if they weren't careful. To make matters worse, he'd already polished off a few pints of ale and a shot of rum beforehand. That was all he'd been planning to drink, but he simply could not let the Rozarrian have his way. He knew he'd likely start feeling sick sometime within the next half-hour or so. But he didn't regret trying to separate her from Al-Cid. In retrospect he could have figured out a smarter and less drastic method, but his results were inarguable. Even when he inevitably ended up sitting on a bench massaging his forehead, feeling dizzy and wondering if his liver had gone on strike.

"I owe you," the princess had said, offering him a glass of water.

"No you don't," he replied, accepting the drink. "All I've done is set our journey back until my bloody hangover wears off."

"The weather's been getting worse anyway," she said. "Perhaps we could use a day of rest."

"You're lying."

"So were you."

"Touché," he muttered. "But much as I am loath to admit this, you need that man as an ally."

"I still have him," she assured him. "He may not like the company I choose to keep, but he isn't angry with me. I did promise him another drink though."

"Another drink?"

"And I made him promise in return to leave the Madhu on the shelf next time," she answered with a little smile. "Like I said, I can look out for myself."

"You should still bring some backup just in case," he said as playfully as his inebriated state would allow.

This memory remained fresh in his mind as the topic of their current fireside chat had now thoroughly turned to the Clown Prince (though at least now he'd thought up another perfect nickname). He hadn't been eager to breach the subject, but once Ashe became queen there would inevitably be pressure for her to produce an heir. And for that to happen, as far as society was concerned, she would need another husband. Vayne Solidor, the mastermind of the Empire's invasion, was obviously out of the question, and his more level-headed and less power-hungry younger brother Larsa wasn't old enough to even consider it. Nabradia and Landis didn't have eligible princely bachelors anymore. And who knew what the lower ranks of the nobility had to offer?

All of this added up to Al-Cid Margrace being a very viable candidate for her hand, if not the most likely to meet her at the altar. And contemplating that was enough to make Balthier feel sick again. She deserved better than to settle for a man like that, regardless of his title or the beauty of his family's gardens. Hopefully no amounts of empty flattery or eyewear flourishes would convince her otherwise. She was smart and strong enough to resist, but she would also likely face absurd amounts of pressure from her so-called advisors and confidants to accept. This, Balthier figured, was the price of royal birth: phenomenal power and influence over everyone else's lives, enough to shape the course of history – yet little to none over one's own.

"What did you think of him?" he asked.

Ashe broke eye contact with him for a moment and stared off into space in search of the proper adjective. "He seemed… charming, I suppose."

"You _suppose_ he seemed charming?"

"Well, he _was_ laying it on a little thick, wouldn't you say?"

Balthier felt tempted to burst out in deafening guffaws, but restrained himself for fear of waking the others.

"Ashe," he said, "within five minutes of meeting you he was singing your praises, giving you cutesy pet names, and slobbering all over your hand. I daresay he was on the verge of suggesting names for your hypothetical offspring. Yes, it was a little thick."

"So you favor a more subtle approach to wooing the ladies?" she asked.

Her tone hit somewhere between teasing and serious inquiry, and Balthier was unsure which was closer to her true intention. He chose to play it safe and assume the former was the case.

"Compared to _that_ approach," he replied, "parades and fireworks would be more subtle."

She didn't appear satisfied with that answer. But having successfully deflected the potential seriousness of the question, what else could be done but deflect even further?

"Honestly," he went on, "how did you manage to gather _anything_ useful or interesting from anything he said? Every time he opened his mouth, all I ever heard him say was, 'Hello, I'm a complete jackass.'"

She snickered a bit at that. "Really? That was all?"

"Well, that and the absolutely _adorable_ nickname he's bestowed upon you."

Ashe rolled her eyes at the thought of that botanically-themed moniker. Sensing an opportunity for a little fun, Balthier cleared his throat and began to mimic Al-Cid's strong accent. His impersonation of the voice was slightly off the mark, but the mannerisms were perfect. Almost _too_ perfect.

"Good morrow, Desert Bloom," the fake Rozarrian said. "How are you today, my Desert Bloom? _Radiant_ is Dalmasca's Desert Bloom." He inched a little closer to her so he could lean over and whisper in her ear. "This is the part where you're supposed to swoon."

He pretended to remove a pair of sunglasses and dramatically whisked his head to and fro as if shaking long hair loose. The princess began laughing softly, so he decided to continue.

"Let me symbolically pluck you from the proverbial rosebush," he said, letting the blanket fall so he could copy Al-Cid's hand gestures, "so I may metaphorically place you in my wavy ebony locks beside my literally ridiculous sunglasses, for you are _my_ Desert Bloom and no one else's Desert Bloom. And if anyone else tries to claim you as _their_ Desert Bloom, I may have to challenge them to a duel."

He paused a few seconds to let that sink in, clenching his fists in mock indignation – and then abruptly unclenched them to stroke his chin.

"But nothing that will damage my face," he said, "for I must always look my best for my Desert Bloom."

She was laughing harder now, a sound he'd once thought her incapable of producing. He wondered if she was now growing delirious too.

"Stop," she said, trying to hush herself, "he's not _that_ insufferable about it."

"Stop?" he said, feigning offense at the request. "_Stop?_ Why, Princess, men such as I know not the meaning of the word – and so I request a dictionary. You may deliver it personally to my ever-so-humble abode."

That got her laughing again, and now she was clasping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. He would milk this joke for all it was worth if it kept getting these results.

"Such _things_ I will show you, my Desert Bloom," he went on, matching Al-Cid's deft blend of flamboyance and sleaze. "In Rozarria, of course, in the gardens of the Ambervale." He looked at her now with a narrow-eyed and lascivious gaze. "But most importantly, within my trousers."

This time Ashe's laughter finally began to dwindle. "That's enough!" she said through her hand. "That's terrible. _You're_ terrible."

"Call me crazy," the pirate said, finally switching back to his natural Archadian accent, "but I much prefer the name your parents gave you. _Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca_ – looks like a mouthful on paper, but I like how it rolls off the tongue."

It was the first time he'd used her full name. She felt a strange little tingle at the sound and was about to write it off as another reaction to the cold when the words _say it again_ popped into her brain, though thankfully not out of her mouth.

"I thought 'Desert Bloom' was endearing," she said, "in its own way."

"Yes, the first few times he said that. But the more he calls you it, the more I wonder if he thinks 'Desert Bloom' is on your birth certificate."

"Well, no matter how foolish you think he may be," she said, having settled down now that Balthier's jesting was over, "he still went out of his way to meet with us. We need all the help we can get."

Balthier began to gather up the blanket, but didn't wrap himself back up just yet. "There are plenty of ways to treat a lady without coming off like you're auditioning for a bad play, you know," he said.

"All right, then," she said. "Prove it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Show me what you would have done in his place." She pivoted to face him, crossed her legs, and folded her hands expectantly upon her thigh. "This ought to be good."

Did that really just happen, or was he dreaming again? Who was this girl, and what had she done with the real princess?

"So you're into role-playing games, eh?" he teased. "I never figured you'd be the type." _You never did answer that question about being tied up, though…_

"Balthier," she said, rolling her eyes again, "just show me."

He supposed he could take that as a resounding "yes."

"How do you know I haven't already?" he asked, flashing that devious smirk again.

"Because Al-Cid's the only person I've ever met with a greater flair for the dramatic, Mr. Leading Man." She pretended to check a pocket watch and looked back up at him. "I'm waiting."

He leaned forward, put an elbow on his knee, and rested his chin on his fist as he pretended to mull the challenge over. "Well, you've really put me on the spot here, haven't you?" he said. "Trying to figure out my strategy so you'll know what to look for? Then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"You expect me to believe you don't have one?"

"I'm a pirate, remember? If there's one thing I know how to do, it's _improvise_."

She sat there pondering this for a moment and shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I still don't understand what you're getting at. Just once in your life, can't you give a straight answer?"

"Now where's the fun in that?" he asked, straightening his posture again. "That's the funny thing about communication, isn't it? So much of what we want to say too often remains unspoken." He paused to let the words sink in, acting as though he'd exposed some deeply profound truth with an obvious observation. "For instance, you'll sit there acting all intense and stoic, as is your wont, but for all I know you could actually be thinking, 'Shut up and shag my brains out.'"

He watched with amusement as Ashe's cheeks, already a little pink from being out in the cold, turned a slightly deeper red. Was she really _this_ unaccustomed to such talk? He supposed she was still used to all the forced propriety of court, even two years removed from her rank. Her husband must not have spoken to her like that. He wondered if anyone in the Resistance had tried it.

Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure if Al-Cid would speak to her like that. Perhaps it was time to dial things back a notch.

"I can assure you that is _not_ the case," the princess said.

"Of course not, Your Majesty. Your vocabulary is far less vulgar."

_Couldn't resist that one, could you?_

She rolled her eyes, gave a little sigh, and looked away from him toward the campfire, folding her arms and shivering a bit more violently than before. How much was from the cold, and how much of it was nerves? Balthier couldn't say, but it did make him feel increasingly guilty for still having that blanket all to himself. And to make matters worse, the fire was slowly shrinking.

"I usually start small," he said plainly, letting the blanket fall. "I'll buy a girl a drink, ask her for a dance, try to make her laugh… but I mostly play it by ear. You see, people don't come with instruction manuals. And years of people-watching have taught me the more desperate a man is to play all his trump cards, the less likely he is to get what he wants." He took a handful of the blanket and held it out to her, noticing that something he'd just said had caught her interest. "By the way, you really should take this. You need it more than I do."

"I'm all right. I wouldn't want you to freeze."

"You know Basch will have my head if you get sick. So why don't we share it?"

"What?"

"Relax, Princess, I won't bite – well, not without permission."

"And I'm not granting it."

"Oh, I'm only joking," the pirate assured her. "I promise I'll keep my hands to myself." He crossed his heart with his index finger.

Despite the gesture, Ashe remained hesitant to take him up on this offer of warmth in frigid weather. There was something about the situation that unnerved her and she didn't understand exactly why. In all the time she had known the sky pirate, he had never posed any sort of threat to her though he would have had plenty of chances. If anything, it was quite the opposite. This was the man who drank Al-Cid's liquor just so she wouldn't have to, who stuck up for her on the _Leviathan_ and helped her escape, and who stayed by her side in a fight he had no apparent incentive to join with her wedding ring as his only compensation. How could someone who made her feel so at ease simultaneously make her feel so uneasy?

Was this what the world had done to her? Had she become so paranoid that she couldn't even trust a simple act of kindness from someone trying to be a friend? Or was this actually the latest side effect of losing Rasler, this feeling as though she was betraying her late husband's memory by getting all cozy with the handsome man who now held his ring? Was it _something else_ that she didn't want to consider (that she could barely keep her eyes off said ring-bearer, for instance)? Maybe it was some combination of all that.

But was she really willing to risk hypothermia over all that?

She took a deep breath and recalled the pirate's words so many nights ago in the Ozmone Plains: _one step at a time._

"All right, then," she said.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Writing the part where Balthier makes fun of Al-Cid was _way_ too much fun. Portraying those two as rivals was fun. Al-Cid _in general_ is fun.

Even in the game it's pretty clear that Balthier can't stand him. How could I not explore that dynamic here?

The title of the story came from Balthier's joke about Al-Cid's lack of subtlety in this chapter. This began as a light-'n'-fluffy thing covering the conversation between Balthier and Ashe over these last two chapters, ending with her realization that he's been flirting with her the whole time. But it kept growing from there, and I eventually thought up a whole new meaning for the title.


	12. A Place Where We Ache To Go Again

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**2.5**_ a place where we ache to go again_

* * *

The two closed the remaining gap between them and let their shoulders touch. Ashe curled herself up into a ball and hugged her knees while Balthier wrapped the big blanket around both of their bodies. She noticed that her share of the blanket was significantly larger than his, and she could feel the remnants of his body heat through the fabric.

"There you are," he said, wincing as he felt her cold skin through his clothes. "If we'd waited any longer to wrap you up, you might have frozen solid."

The princess said nothing, simply basking in her newfound warmth.

"Admit it," he said. "This feels much better."

"It does," she said, nodding her head. "Thank you." She gripped small clumps of the blanket and pressed them against her ears until the cold dissipated. "I must say, Balthier, you're acting surprisingly concerned for my general well-being."

"Why the surprise?" he asked. "If anything happens to you, this little crusade of ours will have been for naught. And I do so _loathe_ wasting my precious time."

She spotted the Betelguese shotgun lying on the ground at his feet. Perhaps she would hold him to the terms of their other agreement after all. She covered her mouth with the blanket so he couldn't see her grinning at the thought of him trying to ride a chocobo.

"Besides," Balthier continued, "I could say the same about you. I never did thank you for that business with Judge Ghis, did I?"

"It's all right," Ashe answered.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did."

She really didn't. Balthier remembered Ghis well from his training days in the Judiciary, back when he was still Dr. Cid's alleged pride and joy and being forced into a role that he never wanted to play. Ghis was a smug and self-absorbed old bastard who didn't always think things through before he did them, but still acted like he was always in control. Balthier could think of no more fitting end for such a man than being blown to bits by the Dawn Shard at his own foolish orders. Clearly the lessons of Nabudis and Cid's well-documented research on nethicite had been lost on Ghis.

More importantly, that incident aboard the _Leviathan_ had not been the first time Ghis had threatened Balthier with a sword. His bark had always been worse than his bite. The threat was just as empty that day as it had been six years ago. Had it been Bergan, the ruthless Judge Magister who'd taught Balthier how to fight, that likely would have been a different story. He couldn't say he looked forward to any reunion with that man.

Of course, there was no way Ashe could have known any of this when she handed the Shard to Ghis that day. And this didn't seem like the right moment to fill her in. The last thing he wanted was her thinking he was some kind of Imperial plant.

"Really?" he said. "After all the trouble we went through to get that precious rock of yours, why hand it over just to save my neck?"

"I needed a pilot," she said after a short hesitation.

He snickered at her response. "Yes, and we've made such extensive use of my ship thus far," he said. "Come on, Ashe. Pilots practically grow on trees nowadays, most of whom don't even bear the burden of a bounty on their head."

"Those other pilots don't know who I am either," Ashe replied. "At least you and Fran are familiar faces. The five of you are all I have now, especially after Vossler…"

Her voice trailed off there. She rested her head against her knees and let out another sigh. "Never mind," she finished.

Vossler had been the closest thing she'd had to a parental figure in the years following the murder of her father. He protected her, offered her guidance, helped her make plans for the resistance movement, and taught her how to defend herself. She'd spent two years thinking Basch had been the backstabber, that Vossler was one of the only people left in Ivalice that she could trust completely. And then, just when it seemed the Resistance was finally beginning to make some progress, he sold out to the Empire. Had he always been a snake in the grass lying in wait until the right time to bite her, or had he given up on her and their cause altogether? Ashe wasn't sure which was worse.

And as much as Balthier would have liked to pretend otherwise, that situation hit a little too close to home.

"You think you know someone so well," he muttered. "Then one day, out of the blue, they turn into someone completely different."

"And it makes you wonder if you ever really knew them at all," the princess continued.

"Indeed." He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew a couple puffs of warm carbon dioxide into his palms. "So what about your comrades in the Resistance?"

Ashe shook her head and let a few loose strands of hair dangle across her cheek. "I kept everything strictly business with them," she answered. "I've lost too many brothers in war already."

"Brothers? How big was your family?"

"I was the youngest of nine."

And now she was the last one left. Disease had claimed the brothers that the battlefield had not. At least with those in the military, though she worried for their safety from the moment they left home, she'd known there was a significant chance they wouldn't return alive (not that this made it hurt any less when they didn't). The royal family's fortunes had plummeted so far that she wasn't even permitted to visit her sick siblings for fear that she too would fall ill and possibly doom Dalmasca to anarchy, conquest, or a succession crisis. All she wanted was to be kept abreast of their health, to wish them well – and when things turned for the worse (and they always did), to say goodbye.

It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_. They all still had so much of their lives left to live.

"Nine?" the pirate repeated. "Your poor mother…"

"She never saw it that way," Ashe explained. "My mother loved having a big family. She used to tell us how we were her greatest treasures."

"My mother had a soft spot for children too," Balthier said, "but even she stopped at three."

"And I'll go no further than six," said Ashe, "though I could only hope to be even _half_ the mother she was." She paused to rub her nose. "I lost her about ten years ago."

"The plague?" he asked, though he was fairly certain that epidemic had hit Dalmasca more recently.

"No, it was pneumonia."

It had been the first time the princess had experienced a death in her family, and it took some time for the concept to sink in. She remembered how as a child whenever she had a nightmare she would creep into her parents' bedroom. Her mother, who always was a light sleeper, was quick to wake and would bring her a glass of water, tuck her back into her bed, and sing her to sleep. About a week after the funeral, Ashe woke from another nightmare and had a hand on her doorknob when the reality of her mother's now-permanent absence finally hit her. She went back to bed, buried her face in her pillow, and later flipped the pillow over to sleep on the dry side.

Her father never remarried. He did, however, hire an official royal gardener to maintain the late queen's beloved flowers. He'd noticed that though his daughter didn't even know the basics of horticulture, she still tried – and mostly failed – to care for them herself. The look on her face whenever she spotted a dying rose or tulip or daffodil had been too much for the king to bear.

"I lost mine when I was thirteen," Balthier revealed. "It was breast cancer."

Ashe's eyes widened and she stuttered a bit when she tried to reply. "I'm sorry," she finally said.

"Unless you personally gave her those tumors," he quipped, "you need not apologize."

"Not just that… I mean, for what I said earlier."

"Like I said," he assured her, "you need not apologize. You didn't know."

"And what about your father?" the princess asked.

He visibly tensed up at the question and hesitated to answer. This was new. For as long as she'd known him, she'd never seen him as anything other than cool, collected, quick-witted, and in control. As frustrating as his cavalier "all the world's a stage" attitude could be, there was something to admire about the apparent impenetrability of it. This was the first sign she'd seen of anything even resembling a chink in that armor. But underneath that armor was a man, and no man was invulnerable. Some were just better at guarding those weak spots than others. She wondered if he resented his own weaknesses just as she did hers.

"Depends on who you ask," he said. "The man who raised me is gone for good, yet his body still walks the earth."

"What does that mean?" Ashe asked, picturing something from one of the stories Vaan liked to tell around the campfire at night – stories that she'd also heard about Nabudis after the Empire's destruction of it. People called it the Necrohol now; she recalled it as Rasler's old stomping grounds.

"It's nothing I like to discuss," Balthier said, hoping to deter her curiosity yet still feeling compelled to offer a few crumbs of the past in return for her honesty. "But sometimes I wonder how things may have turned out had he gone before my mother." He could sense memories of the old days nipping at his consciousness like the mountain air at his ears and nose, memories he'd spent the last six years actively trying to repress. "His family was falling apart around him, and he didn't give a damn. Not when his wife was wasting away. Not even when he had to bury a child."

The words struck Ashe like a dagger to the heart. She could never fathom being driven to speak such words about her father, nor could she grasp how anyone could fall as completely out of love with their own family as Balthier's father had. Meanwhile here she was, even two years after burying the last of her loved ones, still seesawing between anger and despair, still trying to adjust to life as an orphaned homeless widow, still following Rasler's ghost if only for the comfort of seeing him again, and the world had seen fit to deny her even one more minute with any of them. But these were the ways of the world, weren't they – seldom just and too often utterly nonsensical.

"Are you all right?" the pirate asked, having marked her reaction.

No. No, she wasn't. She hadn't been "all right" in so long she was beginning to forget what it even felt like. But how could she get that point across without tarnishing anyone's perception of her?

"You know," she said, trying to hide the cracks in her voice, "it would have _killed_ my mother to see her children drop like flies. I don't know how my father managed it. Perhaps it was better that she went first."

She turned away and dabbed at her face with the blanket as if swatting away a bothersome gnat. It didn't help. Her body began to shake from something more than just the cold.

What would Vossler say if he were here to witness this? Or her father? Or anyone else?

_You're supposed to be strong for your country, remember?_

"But that was only the beginning," she continued. "Every time one wound started to heal, a new one would tear open. So after the Empire invaded Dalmasca and killed my father, I simply shut myself down. And I promised myself I wouldn't get attached to anyone else, no matter how badly I yearned for it."

_You must keep a stiff upper lip!_

She tried to heed this advice, but she couldn't hold anything back anymore. The stinging sensation in her eyes grew worse by the second. It was becoming unbearable.

"After all, why should I bother?" she went on, her voice breaking even more. "Everything I love gets taken away from me."

_Don't let ANYONE see you crack!_

"And I swear," she said, feeling about to burst, "if I must attend _one more funeral_, I… I…"

She couldn't finish it.

Instead she muffled her mouth with a fistful of blanket, hoping he wouldn't hear. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, hoping he wouldn't see.

Then, finally, the dam broke. And years' worth of bottled-up sadness, all these feelings that she typically only released through her sword after letting them ferment into bitterness and fury, came spilling out all at once.

Such weakness… it was so _pathetic_. All this time she'd wondered why nobody had ever questioned her uncle's story, but now the reason was staring her right in the face. Ghis had been right all along, hadn't he? She'd tried so hard to steel herself, and all it took was one conversation with a sky pirate, of all people, to shatter her illusion of strength – an illusion he'd believed in too. Surely this was the part where he would scold her for acting like an overgrown child.

But he didn't.

He draped an arm across her back and placed a hand upon her. She looked up at him from her makeshift handkerchief, and he could see her puffy red eyes and dampened cheeks, and he could see the surprise in her eyes at this gesture – and the fear of how he might react now that he'd seen her this way.

"Come here," he whispered, and guided her to his shoulder. "It's all right."

And that was all he said. He gave a gentle embrace, as if carrying a life-size porcelain doll in his arms, and simply let the princess cry.

For the first time since the day he left Archades, he felt a small pang of regret over his decision to run. Not because he regretted his new life as a sky pirate, but due to the possibility, however slight, that there was something he could have done in his former life to prevent this whole mess.

Had he stayed he would have been drawn deeper into Vayne Solidor's inner circle, no doubt their way of grooming him to one day replace his father, and been privy to all their scheming. He could have emerged as Vayne's rival and made allies among those in the Senate and Judiciary who would have opposed further conquests. Drace would have been on his side for sure; she wasn't afraid to speak her mind or stand up to Vayne. Zargabaath seemed noble, but was so quiet most of the time that it was hard to know where he truly stood. Gabranth followed whatever orders he was given, but at least he had a conscience, even if he ignored it until after his deeds were done.

On second thought, this would have required open and direct conflict with Vayne. And no good could ever have come from that. Vayne had once been third in line for the throne and now wore the crown himself, courtesy of those ahead of him meeting untimely ends by unnatural causes – namely, swords through their guts or poison in their drinks. The official explanation was that the culprits still remained at large, but Balthier knew better. No one in Archadia was more ambitious than Vayne Solidor, and none were better at playing the honorable man. He'd probably gotten rid of people like Drace a long time ago; he always did have a knack for working around obstacles.

Perhaps young Ffamran could have taken any information about invasion plots to Rozarria or Nabradia or Dalmasca, or even all three if he was daring enough, hoping to find some way to force Archadia to stick to the status quo. He'd be branded as a traitor in Archadia and could never go home again, but what if he succeeded? How many lives could have been saved? Then again, what if nobody believed him?

Or perhaps he could have courted Ashe himself and brought their nations together with no need to shed any blood, sweat, or tears – assuming, of course, that she would have chosen him over Rasler. He wasn't even sure if that would happen _now_, and the prince had been dead for two years.

Indeed, the more he asked himself what he could have done, the more his heart sank as he realized the answer was almost certainly _nothing_. Once the Empire wanted Nabradia and Dalmasca, those nations were doomed. Now all that remained of them were the oppressed masses, the bones of their slaughtered monarchs and soldiers, and one heartbroken princess nestling her head upon his shoulder. He held her a little tighter and began stroking her upper back, and she put her arms around him in return.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear when she ran out of tears. What else was there to say?

"For what?" she mumbled, her voice sounding raspy and muted against his shoulder. "None of this was your fault."

There was a brief silence as he fished around in his mind for some kind of appropriate response. He certainly couldn't tell her about Cid, or his failure to do anything but watch helplessly as the old man's nethicite obsession spiraled out of control, or his choice to run from the Empire rather than make one attempt to challenge it from within. At least he could try to make her feel a little better.

"It would seem I've gone back on my word," he said, recalling his promise to not touch her.

He could tell she remembered it too from the soft sound of her snickering. "I'll forgive you this time," she said, and she tightened her embrace.

They sat like that for a moment, the only sounds being the dwindling crackles of the campfire and the cold wind blowing outside. Balthier initially figured he should wait until Ashe felt ready to talk, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to tell her something. It took some time to piece together some words, and he hoped they'd sound as good out of his mouth as they did in his head.

"I know it hurts, Ashe," he said, "but it's still preferable to being alone."

"Actually," she said, "your shoulder is _much _more comfortable than I'd expected."

"I appreciate that," he said with a short-lived smirk. "But you know what I mean: 'tis better to have loved and lost, etcetera, etcetera…"

"Do you truly believe that?"

He paused to think over how he could answer that. Once more he felt as though he owed her his honesty in exchange for hers, but this still didn't feel like the opportune moment to share everything he wanted – perhaps even _needed_ – to tell her. It made him feel like he was lying by omission.

"I struggled with it for quite some time," he admitted.

He had the old man to thank for that. If he wasn't training or going off on mostly routine peacekeeping assignments with the Judges, he was being dragged into the office at home to lend Cid his own impressive scientific acumen. He wondered if Cid ever got around to finishing that sky fortress project. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

And now that his father once more occupied his thoughts, the memories came rushing to the forefront – of his last day in Archades six years ago, and of wounds that still stung more than he cared to admit.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

So I hope you enjoyed the comedy of the previous chapters. We'll be taking a break from that for a little while…

Good _lord_, this chapter. Of all the things about this story that kept my opinion bouncing back and forth (should I include this? Should I rewrite that? Two big chapters or fifteen smaller ones?), none were of bigger concern to me than Ashe's breakdown. The closer I got to writing it, the more I realized the whole story had been building up to it and I really needed to stick the landing. I'm still not sure if it's executed as well as I would have liked.

It's not like it comes out of nowhere, though. Aside from all the pressure she puts on herself to "stay strong," there was also the use of "Melodies Of Life" in Part I, Chapter 5 – yes, this scene was the payoff for that. The first time Zidane hears Dagger singing it in _Final Fantasy IX_, she says it's something she does whenever she feels sad or lonely.

And while we're on the subject of _Final Fantasy_ references, Ashe's belief in avoiding loss by avoiding meaningful relationships was inspired by Squall's philosophy in _Final Fantasy VIII_. I figured it would make sense for someone who's literally lost _everything_ and _everyone_ she's ever cared about to start keeping her guard up to that degree, even though inside she really doesn't want to.


	13. Travel The Way A Child Travels

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**2.6**_ it lets us travel the way a child travels_

* * *

If this had been a normal occasion, Ffamran likely would have focused all his attention upon the girl singing the hymn. She was a gorgeous doe-eyed brunette wearing an eye-catching blue dress and a big charm around her neck (was it showing a bird or a cage?), and her voice sounded quite lovely as it carried through the chapel. The hymn was a favorite at Archadian funerals, or so it seemed to Ffamran. He recalled hearing it at his mother's three years ago, something about unbroken circles and better homes in the sky or some such.

Perfect. He had a feeling Bhujerba was quite lovely this time of year.

But throughout his brother Orlandeau's memorial service, he was repeatedly distracted by his father's conduct. Cid had always been a bit eccentric, and after his wife's death he'd thrown himself into his work more than ever before. But ever since his return from Giruvegan he'd taken an even stranger (and frankly more infuriating) turn. It continued even now, on the day he had to bury his eldest son. He seemed anxious, perhaps even a bit irritable, as if there was somewhere else he needed to be, and from time to time he would mumble to himself – or possibly to some companion that wasn't there. Ffamran leaned over to tell him this would have to wait and was promptly instructed to not interrupt.

Perhaps this shouldn't have been so surprising. Cid had been absent for the entire process of planning the service and burial. He'd spent less and less time at the Bunansa estate and much more time at Draklor, as had become his custom. Apparently he and his invisible friend had been making some "most exciting progress" and simply couldn't be bothered. Ffamran had heard that line before, and as far as he knew nothing had come of it, but he had given up questioning it a long time ago. It did, however, make him wonder if anyone had told Cid that his son had been killed in an airship crash prior to the funeral.

At the cemetery Cid had been the first to place a flower upon the casket, followed by his second son Beoulve. As Ffamran followed suit, all he could think about was how Orlandeau had been claustrophobic and allergic to pollen; it was almost funny, the things one remembered at times like these. Yet when he turned away from the casket and faced the crowd, which included the Solidors and Judge Magisters from Bergan to Zecht (his childhood friends were no-shows, as expected), he spotted his father making a hasty exit. Some of the other attendees had noticed and concluded that perhaps the old man was too stricken with grief. Beoulve joked that Cid was merely trying to beat them all to the luncheon. Ffamran didn't have the heart to correct any of them.

"Where has your father gone, Ffamran?" Zecht asked as the crowd began to thin, no doubt making their own way to the luncheon. He had always struck Ffamran as among the most decent of the Judges (up there with Drace and possibly Gabranth), so naturally he'd barely had the chance to interact with Zecht at all throughout his tenure in the Judiciary. It was nice to be treated with some modicum of respect by a Judge Magister for a change; Bergan and Ghis, among many others in the Judges' ranks, were always quick to remind him that he was nothing more than a beneficiary of nepotism. But he was in no sort of mood to speak with anyone at the moment, not even Zecht.

"Home," he answered tartly. "Where else might he go?"

Zecht gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head. "He's claimed for nearly a fortnight that he's on the cusp of some major breakthrough," he said. "I shudder to think what experiment of his could possibly take precedence over this."

"Yes, I've heard that as well," Ffamran said, watching the first mounds of earth being shoveled into the grave. "It's a pity no one ever told Orlandeau. No doubt if he'd known he would have chosen a more convenient time to die."

Zecht was briefly taken aback by these words. For the first time, he realized how sore a subject this was for the Bunansa boy, and so he opted to stop prodding at the exposed nerve. "Will you be joining us for the luncheon, then?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," Ffamran replied. "I would be loath to unleash my present mood upon an unsuspecting pack of innocent well-wishers."

"Very well," the Judge Magister said. "But please take care of yourself, Ffamran. Your mood at present does not give you cause to do something you may regret in the future."

"Suggestion noted," he muttered. He thanked Zecht for attending, and with that they parted ways.

The trip back to the family's estate was something of a blur. It was as if something was propelling Ffamran back to that house, something he'd struggled to control for a long time and was now threatening to explode. He barely paid attention to the shoulders that bumped him as he tried to weave his way through the throngs of whispering gossip hounds and shallow market patrons that typically populated the capital's streets. He rolled his eyes at the smell of the roast beef sandwich some idiot had snuck aboard the lift despite the plain-as-day signs forbidding it that were plastered on the walls. He passed a small tavern a few city blocks from the estate, and though the smell of cheap ale had never tempted him more, he recalled that his wallet was still at home. So he kept walking, letting the sound of voices crooning an old folk song fill his ears.

"_Take my true love by her hand, lead her through the town,_" they sang. "_Say goodbye to everyone, goodbye to everyone._"

Finally he entered the Bunansa house and slammed the door shut. The house was empty, as expected; the servants had gone to pay their respects and would likely be gone for another few hours. This had been Ffamran's idea, as they'd been in the family's service for so long they'd become uncles and aunts in all but blood and name. Now this provided Ffamran with an unexpected benefit – the freedom to vent. But he hadn't a clue where to begin, so he simply dropped himself upon the nearest couch.

He spotted a small wooden frame resting peacefully on the end table. The frame contained a portrait of the man Cid Bunansa used to be, joyfully cradling his newborn third son in his arms. It wasn't long ago that Ffamran had viewed that picture as a glimmer of hope that this version of his father still existed somewhere. But there was no more denying the complete absence now. The man in that picture never would have done what his present incarnation had done on this day. Ffamran was convinced that either he or Beoulve or even a complete stranger could have been the body in that casket but their father's reaction would have differed little. It was enough to finally bring his blood to a boil.

He yanked the frame off the end table and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall next to a window and fell to the floor.

And out that window, there stood the gardener's tool shed. Surely he could find something useful in there.

He stormed out to the tool shed and threw open the door. And after a few quick glances around, he found what he was looking for.

A nice heavy sledgehammer. A mostly full matchbox. And a large wheelbarrow.

He went back into the house, found the locked door to the office where his father would obsessively research and take notes or even do some preliminary small-scale testing before taking the experiment to Draklor. The door that had kept Cid shut away from the rest of the world, including – and especially – his family.

The sledgehammer made quick work of it. He should have thought of this a long time ago.

The office ranked among the smaller rooms in the house, but perhaps this was due in part to how much the old man had managed to cram inside it. There was a big wooden desk in the center cluttered with open notebooks and designs. A smaller table sat at the back of the room with some basic lab equipment set up. Along the walls stood bookcases filled with textbooks and notebooks, one to the left and one to the right, and a single source of light dangled from the ceiling. And that was all – no windows, no decorations, nothing but a monument to Cid's absolute dedication to science above all else.

Ffamran raised the hammer and brought it down upon the desk with all his might.

The desk and lab table and all of their contents were soon reduced to splinters and shards. Whatever papers were lying around within eyesight got torn to shreds. The shelves of books were completely cleared, either by Ffamran's hand or by his hammer if he couldn't reach, and they dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Then the bookcases were knocked over and smashed to bits themselves. Only the light was spared his wrath.

_Try ignoring your family now, you stupid miserable bastard,_ he thought.

But even after all the time and effort he'd expended, he still wasn't satisfied. It was time at last for the big finish.

He brought the wheelbarrow to the back yard. He loaded it with as many of Cid's books as he could fit. Then he lit a few matches and set them all ablaze.

As Fframran stood watching the books burn, feeling the heat of the flames upon his face, he marveled at the sheer destructive might of fire. Just like that, years' worth of Cid's collected research and designs were reduced to a raging miniature inferno within minutes. It felt strangely gratifying to peer deeper into the wheelbarrow and see the accumulating mounds of ash.

But his sense of satisfaction began to die out long before the fire ever would. He recalled the advice Zecht had given him at the funeral, words that had clearly entered one ear and flown out the other. It all made him shudder before the destructive might of his own anger. He'd never been the type to explode like this. What good could possibly come from this? All that awaited him now was a swift and harsh punishment and an even greater rift between himself and his father than ever before. He didn't want to think about what he might have done had Cid been home, sitting in the office that was now left in ruins. Cid kept his most important work over at Draklor anyway.

Yet what good could have come from keeping quiet? The Bunansas had become so dysfunctional over the last few years that perhaps something like this was bound to happen eventually. Beoulve had initially resisted Cid's influence, but by now had become so thoroughly assimilated and entrenched in the life Cid had built for him (he worked as a laboratory assistant at Draklor, despite science not really being his forte) that there was little chance of him ever reasserting his independence. Orlandeau had never been secretive about his ever-growing disgust with their father, resisting him as much as possible before perishing aboard one of the first airships to test out Cid's newest magicite engine; the crash had been caused by a malfunction in that engine. The two elder brothers had frequently butted heads over this divide. Ffamran had tried to avoid that drama as long as he could, but it soon became impossible to ignore. His rebellion had up to now been rather hushed, as if he'd been waiting for the right time to strike, but after this there could be no turning back.

Still, the violence of his outburst seemed rather pointless – especially considering the idea that just now popped into his head.

How did that old saying go? _"A man chooses; a slave obeys."_ And Ffamran was through obeying his father.

He turned away from the fire and made his way back through the house to his bedroom. He found a large duffel bag and loaded it with his wallet, clothing, and various toiletries. Then he went back out to the hallway and passed the room where his mother used to teach him the piano. She loved classical pieces while he preferred jazz, but their favorite piece to play together was a marching band tune written many years ago to celebrate Gramis Solidor's ascension to the Imperial throne and performed at his coronation parade, a piece which she'd rearranged for the ebony-and-ivory setting. Shortly after he'd become a widower, Cid had sold the piano to help fund more of his damned research.

He entered Cid's room and took whatever money he could find, even going to the old man's combination safe and slowly deducing the combination by listening for the clicks. As soon as he emptied the safe, he went back to his own room and took the Claymore greatsword he'd been assigned with the Judges.

Once he was all packed up, he left the Bunansa estate with no intention of ever returning. He paused for a moment to take one last lingering look at his childhood home, but that was all. He supposed he would always have the memories of the good times there, but while those memories were nice, that was all they were. That was all they ever would be.

Ffamran's first destination was Vint's Armaments, where he immediately sold the Claymore; the Judges would simply have to learn of his desertion the hard way. He was much more gifted with a blade than anyone had expected, and he'd once set his sights on earning a Save the Queen sword, but that made no difference anymore. The shopkeeper seemed rather baffled when he purchased a used Altair gun with some of the money from the Claymore sale, but Ffamran dismissed his concerns and later used the rest of the Claymore money to stock up on potions and remedies at Granch's Requisites.

From there, he headed to the hangar where Cid's various airship prototypes were built, scrapped, and retooled in hopes of borrowing one of their vehicles – not that he planned on giving it back. Vandalism and grand theft aero in the same day? It was once unthinkable for Ffamran to do such things. Now it all felt so liberating, like he'd become a completely new and independent man. In fact, it felt so much so that he started thinking a name change might be in order. "Ffamran" had been Cid's father's name, though Ffamran never much cared for it himself; people frequently mispronounced or misspelled it and it had become quite a bother. He began to think up possible aliases as he reached the hangar.

By now it was starting to get dark and all but the patrol guards had gone home for the evening. Of course, this didn't mean he could afford to get sloppy, but it did leave him a little more margin for error. It helped that he knew his way around this hangar, having frequently snuck out here to take flying lessons over the last three years. He'd always been fascinated by airships and dreamed of being a pilot or an aerospace engineer as a boy. Instead Cid had shoved him into a heavy, dark, and hot suit of armor and forced him to help design just about everything but airships. There was that sky fortress project, but that had been so extremely ambitious that Ffamran was convinced they were wasting their time on a madman's pipe dream.

As he snuck through the hangar, keeping out of the guards' sight, he finally settled upon his new identity, and in retrospect the name had been a blatantly obvious choice all along. It was a name that his mother had wanted to call him when she was still carrying him, but she eventually let Cid have his way under the condition that she could name their next child. They never had another.

Ffamran Bunansa was dead. From now on, his name was Balthier.

He liked the sound of it. Certainly suited him better than "Ffamran" ever had.

He took a key from one of the guards after some brief interrogation that ended with knocking the man out. There was a ship at station twelve that was scheduled to be scrapped the next morning despite being perfectly capable of flight. It was the YPA-GB47 Test Combat Fighter, dubbed the _Strahl_ for short, and it seemed a perfect candidate for borrowing and never giving back. The closer he came to station twelve, the more his heart raced with anticipation. He was long overdue for a fresh start, wasn't he?

Balthier was sick of being forced into a life he never asked for by a man who had chosen nethicite over his own flesh and blood. Sick of being told that the only reason his life had value was because of his high-profile surname, or that the only reason he had a chance to make a name for himself was because of that same man. Sick of hearing such nonsense from people who wouldn't give a damn who they hurt with their incessant gossiping if they earned more sandalwood chops out of it. Sick of being surrounded by people who would literally cut throats to ascend in rank. So now here he was, staring down the door to a whole new life – a life spent playing jazz, coming and going as he pleased, creating his own story instead of letting others ghostwrite it for him.

If all the world was a stage, then each life lived upon it was its own unique story. Therefore each man was the leading man of his own story. This was _his_ life, this was _his_ story, and he swore to never let anyone forget that again.

Escaping the toxicity of Archades could very well have been the best decision he'd ever made. The only question remaining as he started up the _Strahl_ for the first time of many was where to go next. It was another question that proved easier to answer than he'd assumed, given his actions that day.

He set a course for the port city of Balfonheim, the veritable pirates' paradise built and run by and for all sorts of society's leftovers – the outcasts and the outlaws, the rebels and the runaways. It wasn't like Old Archades, where the Empire's least fortunate citizens lived in extraordinary squalor, only tolerating it because they still harbored delusions that one day they too could be mighty if they only caught one long-awaited lucky break. In Balfonheim your origins didn't matter; you could play by your own rules and earn your fortune based on your own merits and skills.

And besides, what better way to rebel against the man who made him a Judge than by reinventing himself as a sky pirate?

Thus the fates of Dr. Cidolfus Bunansa's three sons were set. The eldest was in the ground, buried with all of his unrealized potential, never to rise again. The youngest had fled to the skies, taking with him all of the genius his brothers had failed to inherit from their father. And the middle son was left somewhere in between, struggling in obscurity to pick up the pieces of a once-promising legacy.

* * *

Years later, not long before Balthier and Fran had set off for the Dalmascan Royal Treasury, they had met with the Pirate King Reddas to discuss their latest treasure hunt. It was a simple formality Reddas had asked of all the Balfonheim pirates when he first ascended to power. He wanted to keep track of their activities: who was going where to do what, how much money was coming in and going out of the city, and so forth – separate from the more official records of the harbor's proper business, of course. It also helped him encourage collaboration rather than competition between any pirates targeting the same treasures.

Though these meetings never took long Balthier found them a bit of a nuisance, but out of respect for Reddas he endured them with no complaints. He had to admit that the city had become less dangerously chaotic since Reddas had taken control. The streets were cleaner, the shops and taverns were safer, and the people generally got along much better.

This time, however, something compelled him to stay a bit longer after the meeting had concluded. Perhaps it was because the sixth anniversary of his flight from Archades had recently passed; he couldn't say for sure. He told Fran he would meet up with her later, and she nodded and walked out the door.

"Reddas," he said, "I was wondering if perhaps we might have a quick word."

"A quick one," Reddas said, nodding his consent. "I am a busy man, after all."

"I hope you don't mind if I shut the door," Balthier said, doing exactly that as he spoke.

This caused the Pirate King to raise an eyebrow in mild suspicion and freeze in his seat. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked.

"There's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time," Balthier said, racking his brain to find a way to phrase his question. "And I wish to address you not as a fellow sky pirate, but rather as a fellow runaway Judge."

This only made Reddas feel even more cautious. He leaned forward and spoke in a lower, more menacing tone. "I suggest you tread lightly, _Ffamran_," he said.

In his own former life, the Pirate King Reddas had been known as Judge Zecht, the man in charge of the Archadian forces when they invaded Nabradia. It was Reddas who had unleashed the terrible power of nethicite upon Nabudis, all to satisfy Cid Bunansa's curiosity. The guilt had haunted him so severely that he ended up following Cid's son's footsteps to Balfonheim, abandoning the Judiciary in the process. It was something he preferred to keep under wraps at all times; Balthier was the only other person in Balfonheim who knew the truth.

"No worries, _Zecht_," Balthier assured him, and he took a deep breath as he prepared his question. "I only wish to know if any acquaintance of mine back in Archades – whether friends, family, or anyone else – ever sought me out after I left."

He was ashamed of himself for even asking. He figured he already knew what the answer would be. But even six years after he escaped the capital, he still couldn't let go of the memories of his mother's piano, his father jovially helping him with schoolwork, and his brothers arguing over a girl or how to split their winnings from betting on chocobo races. It was a place where he once knew for sure he belonged. In Balfonheim his upper-class habits made him stick out among the ruffians that made up nearly all of the local populace. Over the past six years the only meaningful friendships he'd made had been with Fran, Reddas, and two of the trio that made up Reddas's crew (he didn't speak much with Raz), one of whom was still recovering from the cessation of their casual flings. It was, however, a significant upgrade over the situation he'd left behind in Archades.

Reddas reclined in his chair again, relaxing at the nature of Balthier's question, but his expression seemed to sadden as he considered his response.

"I'm afraid I don't know that answer," he finally replied. "I'm sorry."

"I figured you might say that," Balthier said, and he turned to open the door.

"Take care of yourself," Reddas advised.

The former Ffamran Bunansa looked back at Reddas with that all-too-familiar smirk on his face, though there seemed to be something false about it this time.

"Don't I always?" he said. And with that he left Reddas's manse and walked to the aerodrome.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Here's another thing I went back and forth on a lot: Where to put this chapter? Should it have been a standalone story? I kept it in, and at this point, so I could have both the story's main characters breaking down as the emotional climax, instead of just one. After all the acknowledgements of how cool and collected Balthier is, I wanted to show him completely losing his shit. And doing so with a violent and destructive rampage that ultimately only serves to make everything worse for all parties involved, and doesn't make him feel better at all.

The hymn sung during the funeral scene is an old gospel song called "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" that is now a country standard; it's also known as "that song from _BioShock Infinite,_" and the singer is based on Elizabeth. Speaking of _BioShock_, Andrew Ryan's motto is quoted toward the end of the flashback. Balthier's brothers are named after Cid and Ramza from _Final Fantasy Tactics_. And the song Balthier hears on his way home from his brother's funeral is "Take My True Love By The Hand" by the Limeliters, which appears here because the lyrics apply but mostly for its use on _Breaking Bad_, another story about a man reinventing himself as a notorious criminal. In the eyes of Archadian society, he's "breaking bad," but the more "respectable" people he leaves behind are actually worse.

I had also wanted Dr. Cid and his three sons to represent Archadia and the three nations the Empire has conquered, even though in this story's context it isn't that important. Cid would be the Empire, naturally. Orlandeau would be Nabradia, the one that resisted and got destroyed. Beoulve would be Landis, the one that fought back at first but has reached a point where nobody talks about liberating it anymore. And that leaves Balthier as Dalmasca, the one that surrendered but kept fighting back until it eventually emerged triumphant.


	14. Round And Around And Back Home Again

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

* * *

**2.7**_ round and around and back home again…_

* * *

Finally, mercifully, the memories faded, and Balthier was able to refocus all of his attention on the princess. She'd been quiet, still resting her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. He decided to give her the most relevant details.

"The years between my mother's death and the day I left Archades were not kind," he told her as he let her go. "My schedule was exceedingly full, yet my life felt empty. I fell out of touch with my childhood friends and wound up too busy and exhausted to make any new ones. I couldn't fit a girl into the itinerary back then either. I even grew distant from my elder brothers, and then one of them died in an airship crash not long before I ran off."

Yes, that would suffice for now – wait, _for now_? Was he really entertaining the possibility of telling her the whole truth? The last person he'd tried to tell about his father hadn't wanted to hear it and wouldn't let him finish. On the other hand, it hadn't stopped Fran from accepting him. She believed that the sins of the father should not tarnish the son, and Balthier was thankful for that as he had a myriad of his own sins to worry about. When he'd met her he was several months into his self-imposed exile, having long since concluded that he was better off on his own and without his connections to the Archadians. Fran's unyielding friendship from then on had reminded him that life really was better with company.

And now the princess seemed to be in dire need of this reminder.

"No," he went on, "I would not wish such a void on anyone."

"If only I could wish myself _out_ of it," said Ashe, patting her cheek dry. "If only we all could have met _before_ the invasion. At least back then I wasn't such a wreck."

"Princess," Balthier said, "no one will think any less of you for needing a shoulder to cry on after all you've had to endure."

"That's not true."

"Who would?"

"Who _wouldn't_?"

"I wouldn't," he answered, "and there isn't a single person in that tent who would either."

"How can you be so sure?" she asked. "I must stay strong for Dalmasca. Those people in that tent, and so many others like them, are my once and future subjects. No country deserves to see their queen sobbing like a baby over ancient history."

Was that what she called it? She made it sound as though she'd been bawling uncontrollably like some hammy actress desperate for her audience's sympathy. Even if she hadn't muffled her cries, she wouldn't have been loud enough to wake their companions. These had instead been the weary tears of a young woman who'd left her heart in pieces just to escape the constant cycle of rebuilds and collapses.

"And what queen deserves a country that won't see her as a fellow person?" he countered.

"What country ever does?" she said. "Like it or not, this is how I was raised. I must think ever and always of Dalmasca's needs first. All else must wait." She paused to rub her eye. "The queenly mask will always be my burden to bear, and I will wear it proudly. I cannot afford such weakness."

"This doesn't mean you're weak. It means you're Hume."

"Then I wish to be a machine."

"You don't mean that," he insisted, shaking his head. "A machine may have the ultimate tolerance for pain, but it will also never know pleasure."

The princess looked away from him and her head tilted down, and for a moment he worried that more tears were coming, but instead she only inhaled deeply and sighed.

"We all need release," the pirate continued. "It's either that or you bottle everything up. And you can switch to cans once you run out of bottles, and then boxes and bins and so on and so forth. But all that waits at the end of that road is a sledgehammer for you to swing around like a raving lunatic."

He placed his fingertip on her chin and guided her head back up until they made eye contact.

"So even if you think you're alone," he whispered, "or that no one else will lend you their ear, you'll still have mine."

She sat in silence for a moment, thinking about all that he'd said, letting it sink in, listening to the cold breeze outside starting to die down.

"And you will have mine," said Ashe.

Who would have thought that a sky pirate – one hailing from the very nation that had left her life in shambles, no less – would be showing her any sort of compassion? It made her feel guilty for ever thinking he lacked the stuff.

"Not a word of this to _anyone_, all right?" she added.

"This never leaves the cave," he agreed, and he let his hand fall from her chin. "Wouldn't want people thinking I've gone soft, after all."

That got a little snicker out of her. "Yes, gods forbid your reputation should improve," she said, and she dabbed at her face with the blanket again. "But really, I must admit… I've severely underestimated you."

"No need to worry," he said with a grin. "I like to think I'm impossible to _over_estimate."

"I wasn't joking," she said. "This isn't even your fight, yet here you are, hauling me all over Ivalice at great risk for little reward. You could easily have left us behind in Jahara, but you didn't."

She paused briefly, as if bracing herself to say something important, and Balthier noticed her lips slowly curving upward. Ashe didn't smile much, and she laughed out loud even less frequently, and with good reason. But when she did… somehow, he could tell she meant it, and this only amplified that beauty.

As a Judge, he'd grown accustomed to being feared. As a pirate, he'd gotten used to being doubted. But for her to open up this way showed the trust and faith she'd gained in him. And he took this quite well.

"Does this mean you intend to see things through to the end?" she asked.

If there was ever any doubt about his answer to that question, it wasn't there anymore. How could he abandon her now? In fact, he felt more inspired to join her than ever. Even if the road ahead would lead him back to the capital, back to Cid, what of it? Here before him sat a princess of a conquered nation with centuries of history and the future of Ivalice riding on her shoulders, haunted by the ghosts of everything she'd lost every moment of her life (waking _and_ unconscious), and though she'd suffered greatly her resolve and dedication to her people and her cause never faltered. This girl would make one hell of a queen someday.

More to the point: if, after all she'd been through, she could still face all of her demons and keep fighting without a second thought, then so could he. And Balthier would do it by her side, setting right what his father and Vayne and the rest of that inner circle had wronged, putting his heart at ease once and for all. He would take Ashe wherever she needed to go, and do whatever it would take to free her kingdom. After all, he reasoned, a leading man must always be on the lookout for a chance at heroism.

A wiser man than Balthier had once famously said that not all treasure was silver and gold. He used to think that was a load of rubbish: "Well, of course there are other kinds," he'd say. "They're called diamonds, rubies, and sapphires." It was funny, the way things turned out sometimes. All of a sudden that old line was finally starting to make sense.

He played it cool as he answered her, putting that usual smirk back on his face. "Now what sort of leading man would I be if I didn't?" he said.

"I believe the proper term is _decoy protagonist_," Ashe replied with a smile.

And she leaned a bit closer to him.

"No, I'd say that's got Vaan written all over it," Balthier teased in turn, and he leaned toward the princess as well. "So if I help you get your kingdom back, would you mind doing something about that pesky bounty on my head?"

"One deal at a time, Balthier," she said. "You still haven't taught me how to shoot, you know."

"Nor have you started your riding lessons," he countered. "Now, about that bounty…"

She pretended to mull it over as she rolled her eyes straight up and slightly tilted her head to one side, presumably in a mock-thoughtful pose – but something about it also seemed, dare he think it, _accommodating_.

"I might consider it," she said, making eye contact again.

If this had been any other girl in all of Ivalice, he would have gone in for the kiss _right there_.

So why was he hesitating with this one?

Well, for starters, this situation seemed to call for something more tender than anything he was accustomed to giving – or receiving, for that matter. But he knew there was more to it than that.

The answer was simple: because he was unworthy of this one, especially in the eyes of society due to both his chosen profession and her esteemed rank. And there were other reasons atop all that. Ashe may not have deserved to be stuck with the Clown Prince of Rozarria for the rest of her life, but it wasn't as though he himself was much of an upgrade, if he could even be considered one. For six years he'd gone through women the way the _Strahl_ went through gallons of fuel, but this was not someone he could simply treat as another anonymous pair of ankles on his shoulders. As much as he _wanted_ to try something now, it would likely feel tantamount to exploiting her current vulnerability.

Still, there was something that kept compelling him to give it a go anyway. His best guess was the look on her face; it seemed to say _I think you're worthy_, though it was likely best to avoid jumping to any conclusions.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

This was another tricky part to write: the transition out of the breakdown scenes and back into something calmer and funnier. It was still much easier than the transition _into_ that part though.

One chapter left, and then we're finally done!


	15. To A Place Where We Know We Are Loved

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own _Final Fantasy XII_, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Here we go – time for the last chapter.

* * *

**2.8**_ …to a place where we know we are loved_

* * *

Meanwhile, the princess's head was filled with many of the same thoughts swirling around not unlike the wind outside the party's shelter. She craved a happiness that would _endure_. It was the kind that required much more effort to piece together, like a carefully composed piece of music or a well-choreographed dance routine, until it was something worth showing the world. Over the years it had proven elusive to them both. Each of them had felt it as children, back before each of their mothers fell ill and their homes started crumbling. She thought it was finally returning the day that float carried her to her wedding, while he sensed it the day he left Archades; still, neither had known much else but struggle. And it still seemed elusive, even now. If they were to pursue each other, surely the world would get in their way eventually. Surely there were no happy endings that would result from this tale.

As a result, she ended up feeling just as stifled and baffled as the pirate. It reached a point where she tried to organize everything into an internal dialogue where all the lines were spoken in her own voice.

* * *

**MIND:** What are you thinking? He's a sky pirate!

**BODY:** But he's different. His style, his physique, his hair, that voice – it's all so _dashing_ and _debonair_.

**MIND:** Oh, stop it. You sound like a smitten little schoolgirl, trying to reform the good-looking "bad boy" from the wrong side of town.

**HEART:** You focus too much on _what_, and not enough on _whom_. I think he's more than a simple lothario looking to sharpen his technique.

**MIND:** Don't interrupt. Haven't you pressed your luck enough with him?

**BODY:** Apparently not, because I know something else you want to do with him…

**MIND:** That's just disgraceful.

**BODY:** And _that's_ just being prudish. He seems interested. You know you're interested. And don't deny it, because you've been undressing him with your eyes for the last few weeks.

**EYES:** We can vouch for that.

**BODY:** See? What else is there to discuss?

**MIND:** Really? Must I labor this point further? Royalty and piracy mix like oil and water.

**BODY:** Except in those storybooks you used to read as a child—

**MIND:** Which are _fictional_, and therefore inadmissible evidence.

**BODY:** Where's your sense of romance?

**MIND:** Where's your sense of _reason_? You have more important things to worry about! What would your family think? What would your people think? What would _Rasler_ think?

**BODY:** They would want you to be _happy_.

**MIND:** They would want you to be _responsible_.

_[And so, as often seemed to be the case, it came down to her heart to cast the deciding vote.]_

**HEART:** Wait a minute! Since when were those concepts mutually exclusive?

* * *

In real time, all of their confusion and the conclusion they reached happened in approximately ten seconds.

It wasn't clear which one eventually broke the stalemate, and indeed from an outsider's perspective a case could be made for either the princess or the sky pirate. It was all in one continuous – and seemingly simultaneous – motion.

He placed a hand on her neck; she gently gripped his shoulder, which was still a bit damp with her tears. Their eyes shut; their heads were drawn closer as if by magnetism.

And then, finally – _lip contact_.

It started with a few simple pecks. Then they held each other closer, tighter, and those pecks quickly gave way to something deeper and more lingering. Deep down they knew it was probably wrong, but it felt so _right_ that neither cared. And just as one taste ended, another began, and then another—

And then someone inside the tent started yawning and rustling, completely throwing off their rhythm.

So typical.

They both jolted into tense upright positions, startled by the sound, and inched apart just a bit. Their eyes were now fixed upon the tent as they waited to see who would emerge. Sure enough, a sandy-haired teenage boy came creeping outside, stumbling a bit as he exited the tent.

"Oh, hey guys," said Vaan as he spotted them by the campfire, and he raised his hand to lethargically wave. "Good morning."

"Hello, Vaan," said Balthier. "Awfully eager to get started today, aren't you?"

"Definitely," Vaan answered in mid-yawn, stretching his arms. "So how was the watch?"

"As humdrum as always. Another night without incident, I'm afraid."

Ashe was thankful the sky pirate had been so quick to adjust. The more he spoke, the less attention Vaan was sure to pay to her attempts at settling her heart rate and letting the blush disappear from her face.

"Sounds real exciting," said the urchin.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Vaan resorted to his usual nervous tic of folding his arms behind his head.

"Um… did I just interrupt something?" he asked.

_YES_, they both shouted at him telepathically.

"It's all right," said Ashe. "It's nothing that can't be continued later." She glanced over at the man sitting beside her. "Right?"

"Absolutely," Balthier said.

"Hey, did that storm ever let up," Vaan went on, "or will we just have to sit around doing nothing all day?"

"Why don't you have a peek outside and see for yourself?" Balthier asked.

Vaan nodded and staggered over to the opening, taking extra care to avoid stepping in the fire. He stood outside and promptly learned the hard way that though the storm had long since passed, the wind was still blustering as much as ever. He complained a bit about the breeze, lamenting his ill-advised lack of a shirt beneath his vest. Then he shielded his eyes from the cold air and looked toward the sky.

"Wow," he said. "You guys should really check out this sunrise. It's pretty amazing."

"There are plenty more where that came from," the pirate replied. "Believe me."

"I'm over _here_, you know," Vaan said as he came back into their shelter. "How much longer do you think it'll be before the others start waking up? I am _so_ ready for the Stilshrine of Miriam."

Awake for five minutes and already Vaan's zeal for treasure hunting had reached peak levels. Balthier had to laugh a little at that. Even after all this boy had lost (his brother was mortally wounded protecting Ashe's father two years ago, and his parents had both died before that), he still approached everything with seemingly boundless energy. Perhaps he really would make a decent pirate after all.

"Oh, good," Balthier said, "another enormous fiend-infested trap-loaded tomb for us to raid. I don't know about you lot, but I can hardly contain my enthusiasm."

"Have you ever been there before?" the princess asked. "It might help to know what we could be up against."

Balthier shook his head. "I haven't even the slightest clue what the place looks like," he admitted. "Basically, the plan is to follow the map until it says we're there. But at least I'll be one step closer to crossing 'visit every locale in Ivalice' off the old bucket list."

"So where _is_ the map, anyway?" asked Vaan.

"Fran had it last. It should still be in her pack."

The boy made his way over to the tent and stepped back inside, and for a moment both pirate and princess thought they'd bought themselves another few minutes of one-on-one time. But then they heard the telltale _bump_ of two heads colliding and a young female voice going, "Ow! Watch where you're going, Vaan!"

And then Vaan came stumbling backwards out of the tent. "I'm sorry, okay? How was I supposed to know you were up?"

Penelo crawled out of the tent, rubbing the sore spot on her forehead. "You know what, forget it," she said through a yawn. "I am _not_ enough of a morning person to pick a fight with you right now. What time is it, anyway?"

"The sun just came up," Vaan answered. "Nice bed hair, by the way." He reached over to muss Penelo's already disheveled blonde hair. She groaned and swatted Vaan's hand away, and Balthier noted that the absence of her trademark pigtails made her look a bit older and more mature. It suited her well, so much so that he grinned at the thought of how Larsa might react were he there to see it. Vaan certainly seemed to like it.

"Calm down, you two," said Ashe. "Let the others sleep."

That drew the girl's attention to their seat by the campfire, and she observed the close proximity between the pair still wrapped in the blanket. "_Ooh_," she said, "what's going on _here_?"

Balthier noticed Her Majesty tensing up beside him, so he fielded the question himself. "Only a bit of friendly conversation," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. Sorry to disappoint."

"Well, on _that_ note," the princess said, letting herself relax, "perhaps those of us who are already awake should get a head start with our gear." Her stomach started to growl. "And breakfast, while we're at it."

"I second that motion," the pirate added.

And with that he and Ashe both stood up and let the blanket drop. Vaan and Penelo went back into the tent to collect their packs.

"We _will_ continue this 'friendly conversation' later," Ashe told Balthier while stretching her arms above her head. "But for now, the Sword of Kings awaits."

"It _would_ be rude to keep the Sword waiting, wouldn't it?" he joked.

She snickered at that, but continued as if he hadn't said anything.

"And if it makes you feel any better," she whispered, "Al-Cid isn't my type."

Balthier raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could respond Ashe went over to the tent to gather her belongings, still stretching her arms overhead as she did so. He noticed that she'd added a little exaggeration to the usual sway of her hips while she walked. It was like she knew he'd be watching, and of course he was. And she must have known _where_ he would be looking as well. She took a quick glance back at him before entering the tent and returned his contented grin.

She nearly collided with Vaan on her way back in while he hurried out. He really did need to pay more attention to his surroundings.

She spotted Fran rubbing her eyes, having no doubt been awakened by Penelo rooting around in a bag full of canned food with a skillet in her hand. The girl apologized, having tried to be as quiet as possible, but Fran brushed it off, blaming it on her sensitive Viera ears. Ashe figured it was fortunate that Penelo had been around to make noise, for surely her own thumping heart could have been the cause.

But it was a _good_ kind of thump, an excited thump, the kind typically felt when eagerly anticipating something. Part of that was of course due to their fast-approaching hunt for the Sword of Kings and whatever purpose it might eventually serve. And another part was reserved for the people who were helping her on her quest to free Dalmasca: the boisterous teenage orphans still smiling in the face of oppression, the wise Viera and all of her worldly guidance, the humble knight who sought to prove his undying loyalty, even the flirtatious Rozarrian prince (though she still hoped he could take "no" for an answer) and the young Archadian prince who still carried hope for a peaceful future despite a war that seemed sadly imminent… and last but not least the charming sky pirate that she could still faintly taste on her lips, a taste that left her wanting more.

It even made her feel a slight glimmer of hope for the hated Empire. Yes, Archadia had spawned people like Vayne Solidor and Judge Ghis. But it had also given the world people like Larsa Solidor and Balthier. She wondered which group was greater in number.

Life had a strange way of catching people off guard. It wasn't too long ago that Vossler had been Ashe's only real friend. Now, with this entourage assembled around her… who could say what would come next? She knew she couldn't replace what she had lost, nor would she ever forget it. But her memories of the old didn't have to stop her from treasuring the new.

Basch woke up some time later, alone in the tent except for his sword and supply pack, and for a moment he wondered where everyone else had gone. He relaxed as he picked up the smell of cooking meat in the air and slowly climbed out of the tent. He spotted Penelo seated by the campfire, skillet in hand, with a small pile of empty tin cans beside her. Across from her stood Fran, who had just finished re-stringing a bow and was checking its tautness. Vaan stood some distance away, limbering up for the day's travels and slashing his dagger at imaginary foes. Finally, in the middle of the alcove, there sat Lady Ashelia, her eyes fixed upon Balthier's finger as he traced their remaining course on the map of the Paramina Rift that lay unfurled across their laps. And though that finger was treading dangerously close to her thigh, she seemed to have no intention of swatting it away or even scolding the sky pirate for it.

_This could be a problem_, the captain thought.

Basch might have done something about it if they were alone, but he figured nothing inappropriate would happen in front of the others. Then Penelo broke his train of thought by declaring that breakfast was ready, and they all gathered in a circle around the campfire to eat and discuss their plans for the day. The conversation was intercut with Vaan's complaints about the small portions, as he insisted he was a growing boy who needed his protein. He stopped once Penelo threatened to bop him with the still-hot skillet.

As soon as breakfast was finished, the party began their preparations for their trek to the Stilshrine of Miriam. Fran gathered up the blankets and contemplated whether to leave them out if anyone needed to warm up along the way. Penelo cleaned up her cookware and empty cans while Vaan kept a lookout in case any beasts stumbled upon their little hideaway. And Ashe stood by the fire holding her armor in hopes that it might warm up enough to not feel unbearably freezing against her skin once she put it on.

Balthier helped Basch take down the tent and roll up the tarp and poles, and once that was done he took a seat on that stone slab he'd rested on overnight while the captain started equipping his armor. He pulled out a handkerchief and started polishing his Betelguese, sensing Basch's watchful eye from time to time. He briefly wondered if Basch overheard any of his chat with the princess, despite knowing that he'd slept soundly. So he simply sat there, innocently cleaning off the shotgun, glancing around the alcove at his companions – mostly at Her Majesty, and only when Basch wasn't looking. And she stole the occasional peek at him while she bent to pull a protective plate over her shin.

Then, as he sat there polishing his gun, one more memory came back to him. It was that marching band song he'd been trying to recall earlier that night, the one his mother had taught him on piano, the one that had been written for Gramis Solidor's coronation parade, honoring the dawn of an enduring new age of prosperity, optimism, and all-around good feeling. The name of the piece was "Welcoming Ceremony," and he began to softly vocalize the melody as the notes returned to him.

Balthier wasn't going to tell anyone about this night, as he'd promised, but it was disappointing to see it end. The royal lips were addicting, a sweet taste of forbidden fruit that he was eager to make a staple of his diet. It had been chaste enough to ensure they wouldn't go too far too fast, but it was also just far enough toward the opposite end of the spectrum to keep things interesting. He was unaccustomed to walking that line or sharing affection in secret, but he'd had enough experience in being sneaky and keeping secrets to render this unintimidating. He wasn't sure how long it could possibly last once the crown was atop Ashe's pretty head, but he figured getting her kingdom back would be the tougher challenge anyway. For now, at least, he certainly liked where things were headed. They were a damaged young pair of people who'd been hit hard with personal tragedy and forced to grow up too fast, but now that their paths had crossed perhaps they could help each other heal. They were smart enough to figure something out, and stubborn enough to take a chance despite all the naysayers. If the others had still been sleeping, he absolutely would have kept talking with her – and also kissing her.

He heard some faint laughter close by and paused to look up from his gun polishing before the last line of the tune. It was Ashe, who was looking over at him with a little smile as she bent over to adjust her shin guards. He smiled back at her, not caring whether the good captain could see this, and hummed the last line of "Welcoming Ceremony" as he holstered the Betelguese.

Fate could certainly work in mysterious ways. How could he ever have predicted that the least attainable woman he'd ever met would be the one to inspire him like this?

Then again, if there was one thing Balthier had learned in six years as a sky pirate, it was this: there was no such thing as unattainable treasure.

* * *

**THE END**

_(good luck at your next meeting)_

* * *

_That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun,_

_And I can only hope you've got it aimed at me._

_Suck it and see, you never know._

_Sit next to me before I go._

_Jigsaw women with horror movie shoes…_

_Be cruel to me, 'cause I'm a fool for you._

\- Arctic Monkeys, "Suck It And See"

* * *

**THE LONGEST AUTHOR'S NOTE OF ALL TIME**

For the record, "suck it and see" is a UK slang term that means "give this a try." It sounds more risqué than it actually is.

That marching band song that kept getting referenced is "Rufus' Welcoming Ceremony" from _Final Fantasy VII_. It's played during the parade in Junon after Rufus becomes the Shinra president. It's also used during an early Active Time Event in _Final Fantasy IX_; it's in Evil Forest, not long after Zidane meets Dagger. Couple that with the joke about "tomb raiding" and the references to the _BioShock_ series in chapter 13, and this fic has connected every fandom I've ever written anything about.

As for other references or things I haven't discussed down here…

**Pirate vs. Princess:** One other thing I wanted to do with Elza in chapter 6 was use her as a foil for Ashe. They have some similar issues and deal with them in opposing ways. The references to _Catherine_ in chapter 3 apply here too; _Catherine_ is a story where the "leading man" (Vincent/Balthier) is torn between freedom (spiral-haired Catherine/Elza) and order (Katherine/Ashe) and must figure out which one he wants more when it comes to relationships. And the reference to Elizabeth from _BioShock Infinite_ in chapter 13 could work here as well, depending on how you look at it. Early in _BioShock Infinite_ you are told to choose which charm Elizabeth should wear around her neck; the options are a bird and a cage. Elza's line about her "boring" home life implies that she was a caged bird who yearned to be free, while Ashe is a free bird who misses her cage because it's the only home she's ever known.

**The Tragedy of Nostalgia:** Back at the start of Part II I mentioned that the chapter titles in Part II were all linked. Here's how: they're all quotes in Don Draper's famous Carousel monologue from _Mad Men_, which also contains this line: "Teddy told me that in Greek, _nostalgia_ literally means 'the pain from an old wound.'"

**Parades &amp; Fireworks:** In chapter 11 I talked a bit about the meaning of the story's title, and here's what I ended up settling on: metaphors for relationships. Fireworks are short-lived "bursts of energy and color" designed to provide "instant gratification that instantly fades away." Parades, on the other hand, are enduring periods of happiness that require more work and coordination. Elza wants the former, Ashe wants the latter, and Balthier is somewhere in between. This also explains why I had originally posted this story as two huge chapters; Part I shows multiple "firework" relationships, while Part II is about the beginning of the "parade."

**Closing Thoughts:** From "Harbor" by Touché Amoré, which basically tells this story in 40,000 fewer words…

"I've always envisioned myself as a giver, but as I reflect I've left something to be desired. Not that my heart hasn't ever delivered, but that it's never felt this inspired – to have direction, to feel complete, to embrace affection, to end all the 'woe is me,' but mainly to harbor the love that I have to give."

Thanks for reading!


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